Mettenr 
9otheMother 

of  a 

Soldier 

Richardson  lllwht 


TTT 


•      • 


•      • 


Columbia  ®[nitier«itp 


LIBRARY 


GIVEN    BY 


GIFT  OF 
H.  W.  WILSO;^ 


//></ 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 


Letters  to  the  Mother 
of  a  Soldier 

By 

Richardson  Wright 

Author  of  "Tht  Russians,  An  Interpretation^ 


So  here,  while  the  mad  guns  curse  overhead. 
And  tired  men  sigh  with  mud  for  couch  and  floor, 

Know  that  we  fools,  now  with  the  foolish  dead. 
Died  not  for  flag,  nor  King,  nor  Emperor, 

But  for  a  dream,  born  in  a  herdsman's  shed. 
And  for  the  secret  Scripture  of  the  poor. 

— Thomas  Kettle 


^^W^^. 


New  York 

Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 

Publishers 


GIFT  OF 

H.  W.  WILSON 

MAR  2  2   1929 


Copyright,  1918,  hy 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Compant 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


1 


h 


To 

My  Mother  and  Father 

AND  Bobs 

Who  is  "in  It" 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 


LETTERS  TO  THE  MOTHER 
OF  A  SOLDIER 

"The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

Did  I  tell  you  he  came  to  see  me? 

It  was  late  noon. 

I  had  gone  down  to  the  pergola  to  look  at  the 
ramblers  we  set  out  this  spring. 

There  was  a  great  peace  over  everything. 
The  air  had  that  baked  noontide  heaviness;  a 
humid  mist  eddied  and  wavered  lazily  in  the 
hollow  above  the  river.  Down  the  road  the 
sputter  of  a  motor  died  away  into  a  dull  hum. 

Suddenly  the  gate  clicked.     I  looked  up. 

There  he  stood — his  service  hat  tilted  rak- 
ishly  aslant  one  eye,  the  tag  of  a  tobacco  sack 
dangling  from  his  breast  pocket. 

"What  are  you  doing  up  here?"  I  called. 

"Just  thought  I'd  like  to  see  you." 

I  suddenly  realized  the  boy  was  fond  of  me. 
The  run  up  to  Silvermine  on  a  hot  day  is  no 


2      Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

easy  jaunt,  you  know.  And,  besides,  IVe 
been  anything  but  the  perfect  uncle ! 

"Had  luncheon?" 

"Lots  of  it." 

"Then  let's  sit  here,"  I  suggested  as  we  en- 
tered the  pergola.  "Or  perhaps  you'd  rather 
take  a  swim." 

We  chose  the  swim — broke  through  the  un- 
derbrush back  of  the  berry  patch  and  followed 
the  path  to  the  river. 

You  know  how  the  big  flat  rock  rests  on  the 
edge  of  the  falls  beneath  that  tall  cedar,  and 
the  water  rushes  past  through  a  cleft  down 
into  the  pool?     That  caught  his  eye. 

In  a  moment  he  stripped  and  was  overboard. 

By  George,  Harry  has  grown  to  be  a  hand- 
some animal!  The  muscles  on  his  shoulders 
and  arms  fairly  rose  above  the  stream  in  great 
humps.  His  face  was  bronzed.  The  water 
slicked  back  his  hair  and  threw  his  forehead 
into  relief.  Military  training  had  thinned  him 
slightly.  And  I  was  glad  to  see  that  the  lower 
lip  you  used  to  worry  about  had  stiffened. 
He  looked  clean,  four-squared  and  noble. 
How  I  envied  him! 

Finally  he  climbed  up  on  the  rock  beside  me 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier      8 

to  dry  off — evidently  towels  are  superfluous  to 
a  soldier — and  we  drifted  to  the  war  and  his 
going  over.  I  surmised  he  wanted  to  talk 
about  it. 

"Well,  do  you  like  army  life?**  I  finally 
asked,  after  he  had  told  me  of  camp. 

"In  some  ways  I  don't  like  it  at  all,"  he  an- 
swered hesitatingly. 

"How's  that?'* 

"I  can't  say  that  fighting  is  just  exactly  in 
my  line.  We  fellows  love  a  good  fight,  but  we 
aren't  forced  to  eat  and  sleep  it  the  way  Ger- 
mans are.  We  aren't  trained  to  be  brutes  here 
in  America.  We  treat  our  women  differently 
— that's  one  way  you  can  tell." 

"Why  did  you  enlist  then?" 

"I  couldn't  get  the  beastly  thing  out  of  my 
head."  He  waited  a  moment,  asked  for  a  cig- 
arette, lighted  it,  and  then  began  in  earnest. 
"I  tried  to  work,  but  work  seemed  so  footless. 
I  didn't  want  to  miss  the  fun,  either.  It 
seemed  like  the  biggest  game  this  old  world 
has  ever  played.     Not  to  get  into  it  was  a 


crime." 


"You  just  went  in  for  a  lark,"  I  added  cas- 
ually, "good  sportsman  stuff  and  all  that?" 


4      Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

"Well,  no."  He  stopped  and  seemed  a  bit 
embarrassed.  Then  he  looked  straight  at  me. 
"This  may  sound  silly  and  sentimental  and 
soft,  but  I  think  you'll  understand.  ...  If 
you  saw  your  mother  being  tricked  and  lied  to 
and  spied  upon  and  deceived  and  kicked  around 
for  three  years,  what  would  you  do?  Fight? 
You  bet  you  would!"  He  smacked  his  hands 
together  with  an  anger  that  seemed  strange  to 
so  peaceful  a  spot.  "That  is  exactly  what  the 
Germans  have  done  here.  My  coimtry  isn't 
so  different  from  my  mother — Motherland. 
You  understand?" 

I  nodded. 

"And  she  stood  for  it  until  there  was  nothing 
left  to  stand  for  or  forgive  or  palaver  about. 
When  she  declared  war  I  threw  up  my  job  and 
enlisted.     Do  you  think  I  did  right?" 

"If  you  hadn't,  I  wouldn't  have  cared  to  see 
you,"  I  answered. 

"I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way  ...  I  had 
hoped  you  would."  He  seemed  relieved. 
"And  I  guess  mother  will  see  it  that  way,  too," 
he  added. 

"Doesn't  she  like  your  enlisting?" 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier      5 
*'0h,   yes!     Only  you  know  how  mothers 


fl/i^e  •  •  • 


I  assured  him  I  did,  and  he  dressed  and  we 
came  back  to  the  house. 

That  was  the  first  Tuesday  in  June — the 
5th.  To-day  comes  your  letter  telling  me  that 
his  contingent  has  sailed,  and  how  lonely  you 
feel. 

Dear  Molly,  I  wish  that  I  could  only  say 
your  position  was  different  from  other  moth- 
ers', but  I  cannot. 

The  questions  you  ask,  the  wonders,  hopes 
and  fears  that  make  chaos  of  your  heart  and 
brain  only  parallel  the  experience  of  a  million 
mothers  in  America  to-day.  They,  too,  are 
lost  with  wonder  and  aghast  with  fear.  They, 
too,  have  sent  their  sons  to  France.  Equally 
upon  them  is  thrown  the  burden  of  anxiety 
and  dread.  But  there  will  be  strength  af- 
forded by  such  poignant  democracy. 

In  London,  I  am  told,  strangers  stop  each 
other  on  the  streets,  in  theaters  and  restau- 
rants, and  fall  naturally  into  conversation. 
Imagine  Britishers  doing  that! 

Much  the  same  thing  will  happen  here. 


6      Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

Harry  and  his  fellows  drill  side  by  side 
because  they  find  confidence  in  organized  ef- 
fort. You  and  the  million  other  mothers  will 
find  companionship  and  courage  because  you 
bear  a  common  burden  in  a  common  cause. 

Naturally,  the  finer  a  mother's  sensibilities, 
the  deeper  into  her  soul  is  being  etched  the 
horrible  picture  of  the  outcome.  But  has  not 
this  its  advantages  ?  The  deeper  you  feel,  the 
more  you  are  capable  of  looking  the  ghastly 
fact  of  this  war  in  the  face  without  fear,  with- 
out trembling. 

That  is  the  answer  to  your  question — you 
must  first  face  the  fact  of  danger,  sacrifice  and 
possible  loss.  And  you  will  be  brave,  you  will 
be  strong,  you  will  be  your  own  true,  noble 
self,  only  in  so  far  as  you  can  take  a  brave, 
strong  and  noble  attitude  toward  the  war  and 
Harry's  part  in  it. 

At  present  you  are  trying  to  keep  yourself 
busy  with  a  multitude  of  war  relief  activities. 
Nothing  could  be  wiser  or  more  commendable. 
Any  deed  for  the  right  in  this  evil  hour,  any 
little  act  to  alleviate  suffering  has  immense 
value  and  advantage.  But  do  not  think  that 
these  will  help  you  dodge  the  fact.     The  invul- 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier      7 

nerable  armor  you  must  wear  in  these  days  is 
unfailing  belief  in  the  righteousness  of  our 
cause. 

Courage!    Be  brave! 


The  Office 
Dear  Molly, 

Certainly  this  war  is  showing  up  men  in 
their  true  values. 

This  afternoon  two  men  were  found  weep- 
.ing  in  the  office.     Imagine  it!    Men  about 
thirty.     Both  Americans.     Both  weeping  real 
tears. 

One  was  crying  for  bitter  disappointment. 
He  had  failed  to  pass  his  physical  examina- 
tion for  the  army  draft. 

The  other  was  crying  for  joy.  He,  too,  had 
failed  to  pass. 


The  Club 
My  dear  Sister, 

Your  fears  for  Harry  larking  around  Paris 
are  quite  unfounded.  He  will  be  far  too  busy 
to  lark.  Besides,  you  must  remember  that  the 
boy  is  no  fool. 

If  you  bring  up  a  boy  to  be  clean  and  play 
straight  and  associate  with  decent  men,  you 
have  done  about  all  a  mother  can.  Unques- 
tionably there  are  evil  associations  in  the 
army — 

"Single  men  in  barracks  don't  grow  into 
plaster  saints." 

It  isn't  a  matter  of  chance  or  luck.  It  is  a 
matter  of  breeding.  The  man  with  a  strong 
moral  constitution  resists  evil  influences  just 
as  a  healthy  physical  constitution  resists  germs 
of  disease  to  which  the  weaker  succumb. 

The  boy  will  become  hardened  in  the  army, 
possibly  rough.  This  will  never  hurt  him.  A 
good  bath  and  a  few  nights  between  sheets 
will  soften  that  sort  of  callous. 

Harry  is  a  soldier,  and  a  soldier  is  the  an- 

9 


10    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

tithesis  of  the  sissy.  Don't  expect  him  to  be  a 
little  gentleman  or  a  highly  sensitized  poetic 
soul.  Expect  him  to  be  brutally  direct — as  di- 
rect as  a  bayonet  thrust,  obedient  to  the  point 
of  self-effacement,  and  above  all  courageous 
and  happy. 

His  officers  will  see  to  it  that  he  is  disci- 
phned,  direct  and  obedient,  but  much  will  de- 
pend on  you  to  keep  him  contented.  When 
you  write,  write  him  only  the  cheery  news. 
Spare  him  worries,  for  he  will  worry  about  you 
on  the  slightest  inkling.  Give  him  news — lots 
of  it.  Even  the  things  that  seem  insignificant 
to  you  will  be  treasured  by  him. 

Make  him  feel  that  you  are  just  the  bright- 
est, bravest,  chipperest  little  old  mother  in 
America ! 

Will  you  do  that? 


"The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

When  people  tell  you  that  they  can't  see 
what  need  there  is  for  American  soldiers'  going 
to  France  to  fight,  they  show  a  suspicious  ig- 
norance. That  is  one  of  the  most  common 
pro-German  arguments. 

They  can't  see  why,  because  they  don't  want 
to  see  why  .  .  . 

Invariably  you  can  measure  the  moral  cali- 
ber of  a  man  or  woman  by  the  extent  to  which 
injustice  and  crime  horrify  them.  Germany's 
injustice  and  her  criminal  acts — Zeppelin 
raids,  Belgian  and  Serbian  atrocities,  Arme- 
nian massacres  and  such — ^have  been  estab- 
lished beyond  a  shadow  of  doubt.  No  man  or 
woman  of  principle  can  look  upon  them  with- 
out being  horrified,  sickened  and  enraged. 

Many  of  us  Americans  could  not  at  first 
sense  the  injustice  of  the  Belgian  invasion,  be- 
cause we  had  no  interest  in  Belgium.  Yet 
that  is  as  weak  an  argument  as  saying  that 

you  can  read  of  a  hideous  crime  without  re- 

11 


12    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

volting,  because  you  know  none  of  the  persons 
concerned.  You  revolt  at  the  thought  of  mur- 
der. Why?  Because  murder  is  a  blow  struck 
at  the  code  under  which  we  live  in  peace  and 
security. 

Germany's  flaunting  of  her  promises  was  a 
blow  struck  at  the  entire  concept  of  interna- 
tional promises.  It  deliberately  depreciated 
the  value  of  a  nation's  word  of  honor.  When 
she  valued  her  promises  to  Belgium  no  more 
than  a  scrap  of  paper,  the  world  of  moral  cali- 
ber ceased  trusting  Germany  or  giving  her 
word  the  slightest  credence,  just  as  you  would 
cease  trusting  a  friend  who  deliberately,  to 
gain  her  own  nefarious  ends,  broke  her  prom- 
ises to  you. 

From  time  to  time  you  will  meet  people,  glib 
of  tongue  and  quick  in  rebuttal,  who  will  at- 
tempt to  cloud  the  fundamental  fact  by  all 
manner  of  clever  sophistry.  In  the  face  of 
such  arguments  you  must  hold  fast  to  the 
basic  principles  of  right  and  honor. 

That  is  what  I  meant  when  I  said,  in  a  pre- 
vious letter,  that  the  invulnerable  armor  you 
must  wear  in  these  days  is  an  unfailing  belief 
in  the  righteousness  of  our  cause. 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    13 

This  war  has  taught  us  to  take  an  interest 
in  honor  the  world  over.  Eventually  we  will 
become  as  sensitive  to  chicanery,  falsehood  and 
crime  in  a  foreign  land  as  we  are  to  them  in 
our  own.  The  moral  leaders  of  the  world 
have  always  shown  this  cosmopolitan  con- 
science. To-day  the  man  in  the  street  is  ac- 
quiring some  of  it.  He  will  be  a  nobler  man 
for  it ;  it  will  pervade,  invigorate  and  vivify  his 
life.     It  will  make  him  a  citizen  of  the  world. 

But  what  will  you  say  to  your  friends  who 
cannot  see  why?  Nothing.  Hell  knows  no 
fury  like  a  pro-German  scorned. 


'The  Mill;'  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

Dusk  came  down  the  valley. 

I  slipped  out  of  the  Mill  and  took  the  upper 
road — past  the  store,  past  the  quaint  green  and 
blue  cottage  of  the  pretty  girl  who  paints  the 
magazine  covers,  and  up  to  the  hill  beyond 
where  the  trees  arch  over  the  path. 

Lights  shone  out  from  some  of  the  house 
windows.  But  most  of  the  houses  were  dark. 
They  looked  out  upon  the  purple  hills  and  fast- 
gathering  night  with  distrust. 

The  myriad  sounds  of  night  commenced — 
rustling  in  the  bushes,  the  sweep  and  whisper 
of  trees,  chirps  from  some  sleepless  bird,  the 
conversation  of  crickets,  the  far-off  howl  of  a 
dog  at  the  moon  rounding  the  shoulder  of  the 
hill. 

Past  the  bend  came  a  new  noise — high- 
pitched,  inharmonious,  human.  But  it  halted 
me  in  my  tracks. 

"Help  of  the  helpless,  O,  abide  with  me  .  .  ." 

Silently  I  dropped  the  ashes  from  my  pipe 

14 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    15 

and  slipped  it  into  my  pocket.     It  seemed  ir- 
reverent to  smoke. 

A  few  yards  on,  and  the  words  came  clearer. 
They  came  across  a  close-cropped  lawn  and 
down  an  alley  of  elms.  The  open  door  of  the 
church  and  the  two  long  windows  beside  it 
cut  the  dusk  with  paths  of  light.  Far  above, 
the  white  steeple  reached  into  the  night  and 
caught  silver  from  the  new-risen  moon  and 
sparkling  stars. 

**I  fear  no  foe  with  Thee  at  hand  to  bless ; 
Ills  have  no  weight.  .  .  ,** 

A  woman  came  down  the  steps  and  hurried 
across  the  path  to  the  road.  Her  head  was 
bowed.  She  seemed  intent  on  going  some- 
where. A  moment,  and  she  was  lost  around 
the  bend. 

"Heav'n's  morning  breaks  and  earth's  vain  shadows  flee. 
In  life,  in  death  ..." 

The  next  time  I  looked  up  the  steps  were 
filled  with  people — ^women  and  young  girls 
and  an  old  man  or  two  in  Sunday  blacks. 

They  came  down  slowly  in  twos  and  threes. 

The  young  girls  walked  arm  in  arm.  .  .  . 
This  time  a  year  ago  a  lad  would  have  seen 
them  home. 


The  Club 
Dear  Molly, 

"Safe  in  France!'* 

A  thrill  ran  down  my  old  spine  as  I  read  it 
in  the  paper  this  morning,  and  I  have  been 
happy  ever  since — happy  that  they  are  there, 
but  really  envious  of  them. 

Do  you  realize,  Molly,  that  Americans  who 
never  dreamed  they  would  be  in  France,  are 
there  to-day,  and  that  they  have  gone  for  such 
a  purpose  as  never  before  Americans  went  to 
France  to  accomplish! 

Before  this,  Americans  always  went  to 
France  to  take  something  from  her.  To-day 
they  are  taking  something  to  her. 

Think  of  the  things  you  and  dear  old  George 
and  I  went  to  France  for — 

Paris  was  France  for  us  in  those  days — 
Paris  of  the  Pre-Catalan,  the  Louvre,  the  Pal- 
ais Royal;  Paris  of  the  lithesome  grace  and 
tinkling  laughter;  Paris  of  the  white  nights, 
where  good   Americans   go  when  they  die; 


16 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     17 

Paris,  *'the  world's  great  mart  where  joy  is 
trafficked  in,"  as  Alan  Seeger  put  it. 

We  were  average,  healthy-minded  Ameri- 
cans. We  had  an  affection  for  the  Old 
World's  way  of  living,  and  a  decent  regard  for 
its  culture  and  colorful  past.  But  we  went  to 
France  to  have  a  good  time. 

To-day  a  strange  company  of  Americans 
has  gone  there.  Men  of  stern  purpose.  Men 
in  khaki.  Men  with  guns  and  bayonets.  Men 
with  rails  and  locomotives  and  aeroplanes  and 
artillery  and  all  the  grim  munitions  of  war. 
Never  before  did  such  Americans  go  to  France. 

I  am  proud  that  we  can  at  last  pay  back  our 
debt  to  France.  Not  the  debt  for  Lafayette — 
I'm  not  thinking  of  that — but  our  own  debt  for 
our  happy  days  there,  our  golden,  idle  hours, 
our  rare  spiritual  awakenings,  our  schooling 
in  noble  and  beautiful  things. 

I  heard  this  idea  expressed  by  an  editor  re- 
cently. He  has  a  boy  in  the  American  Ambu- 
lance who  was  awarded  the  Croix  de  Guerre, 
and  in  speaking  of  him,  he  said,  "Before  he 
left,  I  told  Ned  that  I  was  too  old  to  fight 
and  give  back  half  of  what  France  gave  me 
in  the  years  I  lived  there,  and  that  it  was  up 


18    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 


to  him  to  square  my  account.  Now,  by 
George,  the  French  have  insisted  on  piling  up 
my  debt  by  decorating  him!  It's  character- 
istic of  them,  isn't  it?" 


"The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

Yes,  that  is  a  terrible  fact,  but  it  is  true,  nev- 
ertheless. American  boys  are  just  as  vulner- 
able to  bullets  as  French  boys  or  British  or 
Russian  or  German. 

Somehow,  we  have  a  vague  notion  that  be- 
cause they  are  ours  they  can  surmount  all 
dangers.  That  was  what  mothers  in  other 
lands  consoled  themselves  with — until  the  cas- 
ualty lists  came  in. 

We  must  all  steel  ourselves  to  accept  these 
tragedies.  We  must  be  mentally  ready — 
trained  to  receive  blows  and  to  "come  back." 
You  can  "come  back"  if  you  are  willing  to 
train.  A  boxer  trains  for  a  fight,  a  runner  for 
a  race,  why  not  you,  mothers  and  fathers,  for 
the  spiritual  conflicts  which  are  surely  coming 
to  pass? 

Do  not  think  that  you  can  hastily  acquire  a 
stoicism  to  meet  a  desperate  emergency.  On 
the  other  hand,  do  not  be  constantly  expecting 
a  blow.    Worry  will  no  more  prevent  its  com- 


19 


20    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

ing  than  worrying  will  stop  a  bullet  in  its 
course.  Instead,  go  about  your  day  with  an 
air  of  determination,  assurance  and  cheer. 

Keep  yourself  in  the  best  possible  health. 
The  strong  body  will  help  maintain  the  strong 
mind.  Do  not  overdo  war  activities.  Have 
other  interests^ — go  to  the  theater  now  and 
then;  drop  into  a  **movie";  eat  out  at  a  res- 
taurant or  a  friend's  house  once  in  a  while. 

Always  carry  your  head  high.  You  have  a 
right  to  your  pride.  Besides,  carrying  your 
head  high  will  make  you  walk  correctly,  and 
walking  correctly  is  good  for  one's  figure! 

I  also  think  that  the  well-held  head  indicates 
the  well-held  spirit — a  soul  reserved,  calm,  ob- 
servant, sure  of  itself.  If  you  do  this  in  pub- 
lic, you  will  also  do  it  in  private.  You  will  be 
a  Spartan  mother. 


*The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dearest  Sister  of  Mine, 

When  I  wrote  you  the  other  day  about  being 
a  Spartan  mother,  I  hesitated  to  speak  of  the 
one  thing  that,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  most  nec- 
essary of  all. 

Spartan  mothers  may  never  have  shed  tears, 
but  I  am  sure  they  must  have  prayed. 

I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  how  to  pray,  dear 
Molly,  but  just — to  pray. 

Prayer,  as  some  one  has  said,  is  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  presence  of  God. 

Once  we  become  aware  of  this  presence,  we 
see  clearer,  we  feel  deeper,  we  have  a  stronger 
grip  on  life,  because  we  understand,  to  some 
extent,  the  purposes  of  God.  And  the  more 
we  know  Him  and  the  more  we  appreciate  His 
way  of  doing  things,  the  greater  is  our  willing- 
ness to  accept  that  way  without  question. 

If  only  we  could  understand  why  God  per- 
mits suffering  and  pain  and  loneliness,  how 
much  easier  it  would  be  to  bear  them  I  But 
that  very  ignorance  is  what  challenges  us  to 

21 


22    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

devotion  and  sacrifice  and  noble  deeds.  It 
makes  life  worth  the  living.  It  makes  the 
mother  strong  and  her  soldier  son  brave. 

In  these  days  we  must  all  lean  very  heavily 
on  Him. 


"The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

I  am  writing  out  oh  the  "perch" — the  plat- 
form I  built  last  year  over  the  water-wheel  box. 

Save  for  a  glimpse  here  and  there  through 
the  leaves  of  the  river  gliding  past  my  door, 
the  trees  hide  me  entirely  from  the  road. 

For  the  last  half-hour  a  humming-bird  has 
been  darting  in  and  out  the  columbine  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps.  He  has  a  nest  not  far  from 
here,  and  he  comes  and  goes  like  a  tiny  aero- 
plane, buzzing  speedily  through  space,  his  eye 
keen  for  booty.  He  has  been  my  sole  distrac- 
tion— he  and  thoughts  about  your  despair  over 
Russia. 

It  is  terrifying  to  think  that  the  Russian 
collapse  may  require  the  sacrifice  of  American 
lives  to  counteract  its  results.  The  Russians, 
drunk  with  freedom,  have  still  to  learn  that 
loyalty  to  one's  country  is  the  duty  and  pre- 
rogative of  a  liberated  people,  that  "freedom," 
as  Pericles  said,  "is  valor." 

If  you  knew  the  Russian  people  intimately, 

23 


24     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

you  would  not  allow  the  present  trouble  to 
cloud  the  great  vision  of  their  future.  Russia 
has  passed  through  many  a  night  as  dark  as 
this,  but  invariably,  when  dawn  came,  has  she 
been  found  with  her  face  to  the  light. 

Perhaps  you  cannot  feel  this  intimacy. 
Americans  have  not  always  been  on  friendly 
terms  with  Russia.  There  are  many  reasons 
why  we  have  not. 

Neither  America  nor  Russia  has  striven  very 
hard — despite  several  historical  manifestations 
of  interest — to  foster  an  abiding  friendship. 
Both  nations  have  known  the  malevolence  of 
misinformation  and  distrust.  Both  have  suf- 
fered from  geographic  separation.  Both  have 
felt  acutely  the  intervention  of  pernicious  Teu- 
tonic influences.  There  has  really  been  only  a 
meager  showing  of  that  sympathy  and  senti- 
ment which,  in  other  instances,  has  bred  a 
camaraderie  vital,  advantageous  and  enduring. 

There  is  our  relation  to  England,  for  exam- 
ple— 

We  are  bound  to  England  by  indisputable 
ties.  We  speak  her  tongue,  have  garnered  the 
fruits  of  her  literary  achievements  and  are  be- 
holden to  her  for  many  humanitarian  benefits. 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    25 

She  is  at  once  our  mother  and  our  ally — a 
stern  mother,  a  staunch  ally.  At  her  knee  we 
learned  those  lessons  of  law  and  justice  upon 
which  our  code  is  founded. 

We  may  not  agree  with  all  the  things  Eng- 
land has  done  or  permitted  done,  yet,  as  she 
stretched  forth  the  curtain  of  her  habitations, 
she  has  set  before  us  an  example  that  we  might 
do  well  to  emulate.  She  has  "turned  a  savage 
wilderness  into  a  glorious  empire,"  as  Burke 
expressed  it.  She  has  made  "the  most  exten- 
sive and  honorable  conquests  not  by  destroy- 
ing but  by  promoting  the  wealth,  the  number, 
the  happiness  of  the  human  race." 

Our  return  of  the  Boxer  Indemnity,  our  hu- 
manitarian treatment  of  Cuba,  our  enlightened 
supervision  of  the  Philippines — these  are  rec- 
ords of  which  we  can  be  justly  proud.  But 
are  they  not  the  sort  of  things  one  would  ex- 
pect from  America?  Are  they  not  the  sort  of 
things  one  would  expect  from  a  nation  with 
such  a  heritage  ? 

Then  there  is  our  relation  to  France. 

France  represents  all  that  the  word  "pal" 
means.  She  was  our  companion  on  the  ven- 
ture of  democracy.    Many  a  time  has  she  lent 


26    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

US  a  hand,  and  given  us  the  stimulus  of  spirit- 
ual visions.  We  know  her  weaknesses,  and 
still  we  love  her.  We  would  like  to  do  things 
the  way  she  does  them.  We  envy  the  insou- 
ciance of  her  spirit.  France,  to  borrow  the 
poet's  phrase,  has  hved  with  her  arm  around 
Life's  shoulder.  We,  too,  would  like  to  live 
that  way. 

But  Russia  we  have  held  to  be  the  wayward 
child  of  the  nations.  Time  and  again  we  have 
had  reason  to  question  the  sincerity  of  her  mo- 
tives and  the  dependability  of  her  word. 

Russia  is  a  land  of  mingled  East  and  West. 
It  has  the  good  intentions  of  the  West  with 
the  evil  heritage  of  the  East.  It  has  constantly 
been  trying  to  outgrow  its  bad  political  habits. 
Do  not  expect  immediate  perfection.  Do  not 
expect  what  even  the  authorities  on  Russia 
would  hesitate  to  claim  for  her. 

Since  March  of  1917  Russia  and  America 
have  been  bound  by  new  ties  of  sympathy. 
But  so  far  as  you  and  I  and  countless  other 
Americans  were  concerned,  we  very  often  felt 
those  ties  near  the  snapping-point.  We 
wanted  to  know,  "Will  Russia  do  anything?" 

At  the  time,  you  will  remember,  Haig  and 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    27 

Nivelle  were  driving  hard  at  the  Hindenburg 
line,  with  encouraging  success.  We  figured 
— and  naturally — that  if  Brusiloff  would  do 
the  same  on  the  Eastern  front  Germany  would 
soon  be  brought  to  her  knees.  In  that  we 
made  a  great  mistake^-we  were  measuring  the 
situation  from  the  military  standpoint  alone. 

The  "dark  forces"  in  Russia  considered  their 
country — just  as  we  did — merely  a  military 
factor.  They  persistently  refused  to  recog- 
nize what  the  war  was  being  fought  for.  They 
lacked  the  spiritual  depth  necessary  to  grasp 
the  immense  fundamental  philosophy  of  this 
struggle — ^the  fact  that  in  the  travail  of  the 
universe  is  being  brought  forth  the  concept  of 
world-wide  democracy,  and  that  Russia  is  play- 
ing a  great  part  in  it. 

What  we  Americans  witnessed  with  breath- 
less anxiety  in  the  early  days  of  1917  was  the 
faint  flutter  of  life  in  the  new-born  child  of 
democracy.  We  wanted  it  to  live,  because  it 
was  after  our  own  fashion  and  image.  We 
wanted  it  to  prevail  against  the  powers  of 
darkness  lest  we,  too,  become  enshrouded  in 
them.  Had  democracy  died  in  that  hour,  our 
faith  would  have  been  vain. 


28    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

Do  you  see  now,  Molly,  why  we  must  be 
patient  with  the  Russians? 

Do  not  expect  that  all  Russians  will  grasp 
the  meaning  of  democracy.  Even  here  in 
America  we  do  not  all  understand  it.  Russia 
with  its  180,000,000  souls  speaking  150  tongues 
and  dialects,  must  move  along  slowly.  We 
who  have  inherited  the  stride  of  freedom  must 
have  patience  with  these  people  who  are  just 
learning  to  walk  without  bonds. 

It  makes  me  prouder  to  feel  that  we  are 
playing  a  part  in  this  great  liberation,  that 
my  nephew  and  the  million  other  lads  who 
have  gone  across  are  helping  Russia  attain  the 
freedom  for  which  she  has  fought  these  five 
centuries. 

Somehow  I  feel  that  this  is  the  "unfinished 
work"  to  which  Lincoln  dedicated  our  nation. 


The  Club 
Dear  Molly, 

What  books  shall  you  read  these  days  ? 

The  books  that  you  would  read  at  any  other 
time. 

It  is  a  great  mistake,  I  feel,  to  plunge  into 
deep  despair  and  then  try  to  anchor  yourself 
there  by  reading  a  lot  of  pious  works. 

Do  not  read  in  order  to  forget ;  read  in  order 
to  be  normal  and  contented,  and  to  understand 
the  great  facts  of  this  war. 

By  all  means  read  H.  G.  Wells.  He  comes 
from  the  future,  and  his  spiritual  development 
is  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  interesting 
progresses  we  have  witnessed.  G.  K.  Ches- 
terton comes  from  the  past,  and  I  feel  that  he 
has  failed  lamentably  to  measure  up  to  the  de- 
mands of  this  war.  Kipling,  too,  has  done 
nothing  more  than  average  good  reporting. 

Do  not  miss  reading  the  books  written  by 
the  lads  who  have  been  in  the  thick  of  the  fight. 
Some  of  them  are  the  most  amazing  pieces  of 

29 


30    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

literature — lads  in  their  early  twenties,  lads 
who  have  been  seared  and  purged  and  cleansed 
by  the  fire,  and  who  speak  in  the  simple  tongue 
of  major  prophets. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  tell  you  to  read  the  Bible. 
It  is  even  difficult  to  understand  a  daily  news- 
paper unless  one  knows  his  Scriptures.  There 
is  a  chapter — the  17th  of  St.  John — that  has 
meant  a  lot  to  me  these  past  few  weeks,  and 
perhaps  it  will  mean  a  lot  to  you.  It  begins, 
you  know,  with  that  noble  address,  "Father, 
the  hour  has  come ;  glorify  thy  son  that  thy  son 
also  may  glorify  thee !" 

Then,  if  you  do  not  know  them,  get  yourself 
copies  of  "The  Road  Mender"  by  Michael 
Fairless  and  "The  Private  Papers  of  Henry 
Ryecroft,"  by  George  Gissing.  You  will  want 
to  own  them.  They  are  not  the  kind  of  books 
one  can  borrow  satisfactorily. 

I  am  also  a  great  believer  in  knowing  good 
poetry  by  heart.  Sometimes,  when  words  fail 
us,  a  line  of  verse  will  spring  to  our  lips  and 
give  us  just  that  expression  which  the  circum- 
stances demand. 

You  might  learn  Henley's  "Out  of  the  night 
that  covers  me,"  and  that  passage  from  Fran- 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    31 

cis  Thompson's  *'Hound  of  Heaven"  that  be- 
gins— 

**I  was  heavy  with  the  even 
When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers" 

and  that  other  group  of  lines  commencing 
with — 

"Ah !  must- 
Designer  Infinite ! — 

Ah !  must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst  limn  with 
it  5*  " 

Of  course,  there  are  hundreds  of  other  poems 
and  lines,  and  you  will  find  those  that  really 
mean  something  to  you. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  there  is  some 
very  fine  poetry  in  our  hymns?  Hymns  "fit 
in"  as  nothing  else  does.  "O  God,  our  help  in 
ages  past,"  "Jesu,  the  very  thought  of  Thee," 
and  "The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war"  are 
all  favorites  of  mine.  I  catch  myself  humming 
them  now  and  then.  It  doesn't  hurt.  Doubt- 
less you  have  your  own  favorites,  too. 


The  Office 
Dear  old  Molly, 

I  am  glad  you  asked  me  why  we  are  pledg- 
ing such  huge  sums  to  our  Allies.  You  could 
never  be  expected  to  understand  the  financial 
situation.  But  then,  it  is  more  than  a  question 
of  finance;  it  is  a  point  of  honor. 

First,  our  Allies  need  the  money — that  is 
obvious. 

Second,  we  have  it  to  lend. 

But,  most  important  of  all,  we  held  this 
money  only  as  trustees. 

During  the  two  and  a  half  years  before  we 
came  into  this  war  we  made  immense  profits 
out  of  the  misfortunes  of  the  European  na- 
tions. They  were  obliged  to  buy  here,  and, 
unless  we  had  refused  to  manufacture  muni- 
tions, we  could  not  help  making  the  money. 
In  a  business  sense  this  was  legitimate  enough, 
but  there  are  other  circumstances  in  this  world 
beside  business. 

Had  we  continued  being  neutral,  willing  to 
pocket  our  pride  and  our  ideals  for  the  sake  of 

32 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    33 

making  more  money,  we  would  have  stood  in 
danger  of  the  greatest  moral  collapse  that  ever 
threatened  a  people.  Too  long  have  we  borne 
the  stigma  of  being  money-grabbers.  "Busi- 
ness Over  All"  was  the  inscription  the  Ger- 
mans put  on  the  medal  they  struck  to  celebrate 
the  Lusitania  sinking.  To  them,  who  cannot 
understand  the  psychology  of  a  free  people 
and  of  American  ideals,  the  opprobrious 
phrase  was  justifiable. 

When  we  threw  in  our  lot  with  the  Allies, 
we  took  our  stand  at  a  bar  of  judgment.  The 
world  was  to  see  if  the  charge  of  gross  mate- 
rialism could  be  sustained.  And  we  proved 
that  we  knew  ourselves  not  the  owners  of  this 
vast  wealth,  but  only  its  trustees. 

When  America  went  to  war,  more  than  her 
bankers  were  enrolled — we  called  to  the  colors 
the  wealth  of  our  youth's  vigor,  the  wise  coun- 
sel of  our  business  men,  the  sacrifices  of  a  mil- 
lion mothers,  the  output  of  the  mines,  the  en- 
ergy of  a  thousand  rushing  streams,  the  prod- 
uct of  ten  thousand  factories,  the  timber  upon 
countless  hills,  and  the  growing  crops  of  an  en- 
tire continent.  All  America  went  to  war. 
For  all  America  knew  that  the  hour  had  come 


34     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

when  our  nation  must  measure  up  to  its  pro- 
fessed ideals. 

I  am  proud  to  be  alive  to-day.    America  has 
made  good  I 


"The  Mill,"  SHvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

Do  you  remember  my  neighbor  Walton, 
whose  fields  touch  the  back  of  my  garden? 
He's  a  giant  of  a  man ;  a  real  Yankee  farmer, 
with  a  face  cross-grained,  rough-hewn  and 
weather-worn  as  a  boulder  of  granite,  hands 
gnarled  by  a  lifetime  at  the  plow,  and  eyes 
limpid  blue  like  a  sailor's.  Usually  he  is  a 
taciturn  old  codger,  brusque  and  grumpy. 
To-day  I  found  him  quite  amiable. 

He  was  hilling  corn  with  a  horse  cultivator 
down  by  the  back  fence.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  the  rich  odor  of  newly  turned  earth.  As 
I  strolled  over  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with 
him  he  looked  up,  and  his  face  lighted  with  an 
unusual  cheer. 

"Mornin'." 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Walton.  How  are 
things?" 

"Whoa!"  He  drew  in  his  horse,  threw  the 
reins  off  his  neck  and  came  to  where  I  was 

35 


36     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

standing.  "Everything's  fine  this  mornin'. 
Yes,  sir,  it  is."     Then  he  stopped. 

"D'you  remember  that  boy  Al  of  mine?"  he 
asked.     There  was  a  ring  of  pride  in  his  voice. 

"I  certainly  do.  Haven't  seen  Al  for  a  long 
time." 

"No.  He  ain't  been  up  here  of  late.  I  jist 
heard  from  him.     He  got  over  all  right." 

"Over  where?" 

"France." 

"No !  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  Al's  in  the 
army!"  My  surprise  was  genuine.  As  a  lad 
Al  Walton  was  notliing  but  a  nondescript 
farmer's  boy  with  no  special  characteristics  to 
remember  him  by. 

"Yes,  sir,  my  Al's  a  soldier."  The  old  man 
continued.  "And  I  bet  he  makes  a  good  one. 
He  always  was  a  strong  little  tike,  always  get- 
tin'  in  fights.  I  was  for  makin'  a  farmer  out  of 
him,  but  he  says  to  me,  *No,  Pop,  I  ain't  gona 
stay  here  and  work  the  way  you  have.  New 
York  for  mine.  That's  where  the  money  is.' 
Of  course,  I  labored  with  him,  but  it  weren't  no 
use.  ...  So  Al,  he  went  down  to  the  city  to 
work.  He  was  gettin'  twelve  dollars  a  week 
when  the  war  started." 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    37 

Walton  pushed  back  his  hat  and  looked  up 
to  where  the  green  and  saffron  and  tannish 
checker-board  hills  stretched  ofp  to  the  blue 
horizon.  A  strange  light  spread  over  his  face, 
such  as  glows  over  a  summer  sky  when  sheet 
lightning  shoots  across  it.  "But  I  guess  it's  all 
right,"  he  went  on  slowly.  "I've  got  a  lot  of 
work  in  me  yet.  .  .  .  But  here's  me  and  the 
missus.     And  there's  Al  in  France,  fightin'." 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  recollect.  "B'  the 
way,  Al  spoke  about  Mrs.  Grahame's  boy 
Harry.  He  says  he's  in  his  regiment.  That's 
funny,  ain't  it?" 

Just  then  I  heard  the  postman's  whistle  and 
went  back  to  take  the  mail.  There  was  your 
letter  and  Harry's  with  the  same  news  about 
Al  Walton.  Ever  since,  I  have  been  marvel- 
ing at  the  strange  bedfellows  this  war  has  made. 

Can't  you  picture  Al  Walton's  career  ?  His 
father  told  me  about  it  later. 

Fearing  the  drudgery  and  loneliness  and 
poor  wage  of  farm  life,  he  goes  to  the  city  and 
first  gets  a  job  at  nine  dollars  a  week  in  a 
foundry.  That  work  proves  too  arduous  and 
he  finds  himself  an  assistant  shipping  clerk  in 
an  express  office  at  a  dollar  advance,    A  year 


38     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 


later,  tiring  of  that,  he  lands  a  place  back  of 
the  counter  in  a  grocery  store.  From  this  he 
goes  into  the  army — a  calling  where  wages 
really  mean  little. 

Meantime  Harry  is  being  nursed  through  a 
costly  preparatory  school  and  a  costlier  college. 

He  learns  to  wear  dinner  clothes  and  dance 
and  parse  Latin  sentences  and  recite  the  sa- 
lient dates  of  English  history.  He  has  a  room 
at  college  that  is  lined  with  banners  and  post- 
ers and  books  and  mementos  of  a  hundred 
glorious  days  and  nights. 

He  plays  on  the  college  tennis  team,  writes 
terrible  verse  for  the  college  paper,  passes 
through  a  Swinburne  madness  to  a  fist-pound- 
ing enthusiasm  for  Kipling  and  O.  Henry. 
And  then  he  graduates,  dances  all  night  at  the 
senior  "prom,"  sings  doleful  songs  with  other 
girls  and  boys  at  dawn  under  the  old  elms  of 
the  campus,  and  next  morning  is  awarded  a 
piece  of  parchment  assuring  those  "to  whom 
these  presents  shall  come" — and  who  can  read 
Latin — that  Henry  Bartholomew  Grahame, 
having  passed  sufficient  courses  in  the  required 
number  of  learned  subjects,  is  entitled  to  be  a 
Bachelor  of  Arts. 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    39 

Thus  fortified,  he  takes  the  icy  plunge  into 
the  commercial  world.  Fifteen  dollars  a  week 
as  an  advertising  solicitor  is  not  a  bad  begin- 
ning. 

You,  most  indulgent  of  mothers,  see  that  he 
never  wants — the  rent  is  always  paid,  the  suits 
always  pressed,  the  coin  always  in  hand  for 
amusements.  And  every  few  months  you 
come  to  town,  and  he  tells  you  there  is  Big 
Money  in  the  Advertising  Game — and  you  go 
home  happy  with  the  roseate  dream  of  your  lad 
becoming  a  Commercial  Giant! 

Suddenly  to  the  boys  of  this  country  is  issued 
the  challenge:  "The  world  must  be  made  safe 
for  Democracy!" 

On  his  way  home  in  the  subway  that  night 
Al  Walton  reads  of  the  war.  He  talks  it  over 
with  folks  at  the  boarding-house — and  his  sleep 
is  disturbed  by  strange  dreams. 

That  night  Harry  rides  up  in  the  bus,  but 
forgets  to  look  at  the  eddies  of  pretty  girls  on 
the  pavement,  so  engrossed  is  he  with  the  re- 
port that  America  has  taken  her  stand  with 
France  and  Britain  against  the  malefactor  of 
the  world.    Doubtless  that  night  he  sits  by 


40     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

the  window,  his  feet  on  the  sill,  and  gazes  for 
hours  over  the  housetops  with  never  a  word. 

And  finally  Al  Walton  goes  to  his  boss  and 
says  that  he  simply  can't  stand  it  any  longer, 
and  is  going  to  enlist.  And  Harry  goes  to  his 
boss  and  says  he  simply  can't  stand  it  any 
longer,  and  is  going  to  enlist. 

A  week  later  they  are  lined  up  shoulder  to 
shoulder.  They  wear  the  same  sort  of  uni- 
form, carry  the  same  sort  of  gun  and  bayonet 
and  kit. 

To-night  they  sleep  in  pup  tents  side  by  side. 
They  will  live  in  the  trenches  as  mates.  They 
will  go  "over  the  top"  as  brothers,  fighting  and 
suffering  as  fellows  in  a  common  cause. 

Khaki  is  a  great  leveler.  Through  it  func- 
tions the  splendid  democracy  of  war.  It  dis- 
solves prejudices  and  artificial  social  distinc- 
tions. It  gives  all  men  a  re-birth,  from  which 
they  start  again  free  and  equal. 


En  route 
Dear  Molly, 

This  is  too  good  to  keep. 

As  I  was  walking  to  the  train  this  morning 
I  met  my  neighbor  Walton  on  the  road.  He 
was  driving  his  cultivator  down  to  the  lower 
field. 

"What  do  you  think  that  boy  of  mine  says?" 
he  called.  "Al  says  he's  never  got  such  good 
things  to  eat  as  he's  had  since  he's  been  in  the 
army.     That's  funny,  ain't  it?" 

I  assured  him  it  was.  Although  I  didn't 
say  what  I  thought — that  Al  must  have  been 
making  some  invidious  comparisons  between 
the  fare  Uncle  Sam  sets  out  and  the  meals 
provided  by  a  certain  lady  ogre  of  a  Brooklyn 
boarding-house ! 

I  suppose  Harry  will  be  writing  next  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  to  compare  with 
army  beans ! 

Cheer  up,  beans  won't  hurt  him. 


41 


"The  Mill,"  SUvermine 
Molly  dear. 

How  shall  you  feel  toward  Geiman  moth- 
ers? 

You  say  the  human  heart  is  the  human  heart 
the  world  over,  that  a  Prussian  mother  can 
just  as  easily  be  broken  with  grief  as  can  an 
American  or  British  or  French.  That  is  very 
true.  Mother  love  is  a  universal  element. 
The  mothers  of  Germany  in  the  age  of  that 
nation's  greatest  and  tenderest  sentiment  were 
enthroned  above  all  else.  Some  of  that  senti- 
ment remains  in  the  masses  of  the  German 
people  to-day.  Yet  the  training  of  the  last 
three  generations  in  Germany  has  not  been  di- 
rected toward  a  cherishing  of  the  mother  ideal. 

The  Prussian  ideal  for  a  woman  is  to  bear 
children — as  many  as  she  can — cook  the 
meals  and  represent  the  family  at  divine  wor- 
ship. This  has  had  a  terrible  effect  on  both 
men  and  women.  It  has  made  the  woman  a 
mere  bearer  of  burdens.  It  has  made  the  man 
less  the  companion  of  his  wife  and  more  her 

42 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    43 

overlord.  The  man  was  highly  prized  because 
he  was  a  potential  fighting  unit.  He  fitted 
exactly  into  the  Prussian  military  scheme,  and 
so  did  the  woman,  if  kept  in  her  place  as  con- 
stant child-bearer,  cook  and  church  attendant. 

From  this  has  come  the  servility  of  German 
womanhood,  and  a  lowering  of  the  national 
ideals.  For  the  nation  that  degrades  its  wo- 
men must  inevitably  become  gross,  coarse,  and 
brutal. 

Do  you  remember  my  writing  you  last 
month  the  way  Harry  expressed  it?  "We  are 
not  naturally  brutes.  We  treat  our  women 
differently.  That's  one  way  you  can  tell.*' 
There  you  have  a  concise  summary  of  a  Ger- 
man national  characteristic.  Of  course,  there 
are  coimtless  exceptions,  but  the  Prussian  ideal 
remains  dominant.  And  the  Prussian  ideal  is 
what  we  are  fighting  to  crush. 

Some  years  back  I  was  sitting  on  the  steps 
of  a  hotel  at  Cortina  watching  a  number  of 
Germans  come  up  the  mountain.  They  were 
on  a  walking  tour.  The  men  came  first,  bur- 
dened only  by  their  own  corpulence  and 
alpen-stocks.  Several  moments  after  the 
women  hove  in  sight.     Each  woman  carried  a 


44     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

heavy  knapsack,  and  she  dragged  along  as 
though  she  simply  could  not  walk  another  step. 

Later  in  the  evening  a  girl  of  our  party  fell 
into  conversation  with  one  of  the  women  and 
was  bold  enough  to  ask,  "Why  don't  you 
women  make  the  men  carry  the  knapsacks  on 
these  tramps?" 

*'0h,  but  I  am  the  wife,"  the  frau  answered 
cheerfully.  And  she  really  didn't  seem  to 
mind  it  at  all. 

This  is  a  peaceful  example  of  Prussian  Kul- 
tur  in  the  working.  It  coarsened  the  men  and 
hardened  the  women  beyond  complaint  or  re- 
monstrance. 

Don't  waste  your  time,  Molly,  wondering 
if  German  mothers  feel  anguish  as  deep  as 
American  mothers.  It  would  be  utterly  in- 
human to  say  that  they  do  not.  They  suffer 
even  more.  They  have  almost  been  forced  to 
become  numb,  cold  and  acceptant.  But  it  is 
for  you  to  look  ahead  to  that  day  when, 
through  our  victory  over  the  Prussian  ideal, 
German  womanhood  will  be  emancipated. 

The  boys  who  are  in  France  may  not  be 
aware  of  it,  but  their  fighting  is  a  piece  of  no- 
ble  gallantry.     Victory  for  their  arms  will 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    45 

mean  victory  for  Gennan  women.  The  bur- 
dens our  soldiers  bear  in  France  to-day  and 
you  bear  here  in  your  heart  are  carried  for  the 
women  on  the  other  side  of  No  Man's  Land. 
.  .  .  Some  day  they  will  understand  this. 


On  the  road 
Dear  Sis, 

An  intense  longing  for  quiet  crept  over  me. 
I  took  a  book,  and  followed  the  river  road  up 
to  a  lake  in  the  hills,  and  sat  down  to  enjoy 
what  I  had  come  to  find. 

What  a  disillusion! 

I  had  thought  it  would  be  peace,  ineffable 
peace,  to  lie  beside  the  limpid,  lustral  waters 
of  that  lake. 

Then  suddenly  came  the  consciousness  that 
beneath  its  calm  was  a  buried  tumult — ^the 
constant  urging  of  bottom  springs,  the  blind 
groping  of  roots  into  the  dark  earth,  the  tire- 
less reach  upward  and  outward  of  branch  and 
stem  and  leaf.  .  .  .  Only  the  stones  would 
seem  to  scorn  the  tumult,  stones  that  had 
passed  through  the  trying  fires  and  the  cooling 
of  ages  and  have  at  last  attained  the  serene 
inaction  of  maturity. 


46 


The  Office 
Dear  Molly, 

Yes,  I  know  the  bayonet  practice  that 
Harry  describes  is  vivid.  And  I  guess  the 
actual  practice  is  much  more  vivid  than  his  de- 
scription. But  please,  Molly,  don't  worry 
about  its  ruining  his  morals. 

Remember  this — our  Allies  fought  with  the 
accepted  instruments  of  war  until  the  Hun 
turned  loose  his  insane  fury  of  gas  and  fire 
and  contagious  germs.  These  were  the  things 
he  had  solemnly  pledged  at  The  Hague  not 
to  use. 

Thank  God,  we  have  not  yet  taken  to  scat- 
tering contagious  germs ;  please  God  we  never 
shall.  But  we  must  meet  the  foe  with  steel  of 
his  own  strength.  It  would  be  wrong  to  do 
otherwise.  You  cannot  argue  with  a  machine 
gun;  you  can  only  answer  it  with  a  machine 
gun  of  greater  capacity  for  destruction.  You 
cannot  compromise  with  a  mad  beast  or  a  man 
who  deliberately  rapes,  murders,  loots  and 
burns ;  you  must  kill  him. 

47 


48     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

If  you  feel  that  jabbing  six  inches  of  cold 
steel  into  Germans  will  make  brutes  of  Harry 
and  his  fellows,  what  would  you  think  about 
him  if  he  refused  to  do  it?     Eh? 

In  times  of  peace  the  man  who  refuses  to 
defend  his  fellow  man  against  the  unjust  and 
murderous  assault  of  a  thug  is  called  a  cow- 
ard. How  much  more  is  he  a  coward  who  sees 
the  bleeding  and  mutilated  forms  of  outraged 
men  and  women  and  the  ruins  of  their  homes, 
and  does  not  rush  to  their  defense?  This  sort 
of  bravery,  Molly,  is  what  you  gave  the  boy 
yourself. 

No  parents  could  have  watched  over  the 
training  of  their  boy  more  devotedly  than  you 
and  George.  You  taught  him  tenderness,  un- 
selfishness, loyalty,  laughter,  courage,  and  en- 
durance, and  with  these  things  to  play  the 
great  game.  Put  a  bayonet  in  such  a  man's 
hand  and  tell  him  to  kill  his  foe.  He  will  kill 
not  because  he  has  a  lust  for  blood,  but  be- 
cause of  the  righteousness  of  his  cause. 

You  can  differentiate  between  the  men 
who  have  a  lust  for  blood  and  those  who  have 
not  by  the  way  they  treat  the  vanquished  foe. 
The  difference  between  the  German  treatment 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    49 

of  prisoners  and  the  allies,  clearly  illustrates 
this  point. 

There  have  been  too  many  proven  cases  of 
Germans'  shooting,  mutilating,  torturing  and 
committing  other  unspeakable  retaliations  on 
the  man  who  is  down  to  leave  the  slightest 
doubt  in  my  mind  that  the  Prussian  ideal  is  an 
ideal  of  blood  lust. 

When  Harry  and  the  other  boys  finish  with 
this  war  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  they 
will  be  anything  but  morally  and  physically 
strengthened.  They  will  be  so  sickened  of 
fighting,  of  bloodshed  and  destruction  that 
they  will  never  be  able  to  think  of  taking  up 
arms  again. 

But,  also,  we  will  never  be  able  to  accuse 
them  of  cowardice.  They  are  fighting  a  beast 
that  brooks  no  opponent,  even  the  weakest. 
Six  inches  of  cold  steel  is  the  only  thing  that 
can  halt  that  beast. 


"The  Mill/'  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

To-day  I  left  the  office  early,  came  up  to  the 
country,  and  started  out  for  a  long  tramp  with 
Smudge.  Faithful  beast,  he  heeled  every 
step  of  the  way,  and  when  I  slashed  the  road- 
side bushes  in  my  wrath  and  talked  aloud,  he 
never  so  much  as  growled.  I  am  feeling  much 
better  now — less  discouraged  and  more  capa- 
ble of  looking  facts  in  the  face.  A  good  walk 
in  the  country  is  the  best  antidote  for  war 
blues. 

When  you  wrote  me  that  the  bad  news  of 
the  U-boat  attacks  and  the  feeble  advances  of 
the  French  and  British  had  thrown  vou  into 
the  depths  of  despair,  I  had  a  secret  feeling  of 
gratitude. 

Please  do  not  misunderstand  me. 

You  are  just  a  mother-woman,  concerned 
with  your  home  and  the  welfare  of  your  boy, 
and  the  great  world  events  have  not  meant  so 
much  to  you  before  as  they  do  now.  There 
are  thousands  of  other  mothers  here  in  Amer- 

50 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    51 

ica  who  have  read  the  war  news  for  three 
years,  have  taken  sides,  have  suffered  dismay 
or  triumph,  yet  to  whom  the  war  was  not  a 
vital,  burning  subject  until  the  participation 
of  their  own  sons  in  it  brought  it  vividly  home 
to  them. 

Had  the  powers  that  sunk  our  ships  been 
permitted  to  go  unpunished  and  unthwarted, 
the  peace  and  security  of  your  home  in  the 
golden  fields  of  the  South  and  my  httle  old 
mill  beside  the  quiet  waters  of  Silvermine 
would  have  been  threatened.  Life  would  have 
meant  a  shuttered  house  in  a  dark  street. 

We  do  not  recognize  the  right  to  murder,  to 
rape,  to  loot,  or  to  destroy.  Our  forefathers 
sacrificed  and  we,  too,  fought  that  life  might 
be  more  precious,  womanhood  more  revered, 
property  more  secure,  and  the  worth-while 
things  of  this  world  made  abiding. 

To  hold  fast  these  liberties,  bought  with  so 
much  precious  blood,  we  must  win — and  win 
in  the  right  way. 

We  are  not  sudden  haters ;  but  by  dint 
Of  many  horrors  all  our  hearts  are  quick. 

Germany  reached  the  zenith  of  her  aspira- 


52     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

tion  in  a  hymn  of  hate.  We  must  reach  om-s 
not  in  hate,  but  in  a  grim  determination  to 
fight  until  the  principles  of  decency  and  right 
are  unquestionably  secure  against  further  at- 
tack. We  must  do  more — ^we  must  set  up 
such  a  noble  standard  that  the  German  people 
will  see  through  the  gross  deception  that  has 
been  played  on  them  and  rise  in  their  might 
to  cast  it  forever  from  their  nation. 

Many  times  have  the  Allies  met  with  terri- 
ble defeat  and  appalling  losses.  The  losses 
and  delays  last  week  are  infinitesimal  com- 
pared with  some  that  have  gone  before.  Our 
American  troops  will  also  meet  with  reverses, 
and  line  after  line  will  have  to  fall.  We  are 
not  superhuman — and  the  foe  is  desperate. 
But  in  no  wise  must  we  permit  this  to  under- 
mine our  loyalty  to  our  causes  or  weaken  our 
belief  in  the  ultimate  victory. 

In  dark  days  such  as  these,  remember  the 
pledge  the  great  English  statesman  made. 
It  is  among  the  world's  noblest  utterances: 
"Never  shall  the  sword  be  sheathed  until  the 
object  is  accomplished  for  which  it  was 
drawn." 


"The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

My  neighbor  Walton  has  said  unmention- 
able things  about  the  censor.  He  speaks  of 
him  in  vivid  adjectives,  calls  him  rural,  hand- 
hewn.  New  England  pseudonyms. 

I  know. 

Did  he  not  hurl  these  adjectives  over  my 
back  fence  this  morning?  And  did  it  not  re- 
quire all  my  powers  of  persuasion  to  get  the 
old  gentleman  back  into  a  presentable  frame 
of  mind? 

Apparently  Al  must  have  been  too  meti- 
culous about  geographical  identification  in  his 
letter,  and  the  censor  exercised  summary 
measures. 

The  envelope  was  in  Al's  handwriting,  but 
the  enclosure  was  in  another's.  It  bore  the 
message : 

Dear  Sir, 

Your  son  is  well  and  happy,  but  he  talks  too  much. 

Perhaps  this  may  explain  some  of  Harry's 
future  silences. 

63 


"The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

You  can't  understand  the  slacker? 

I  do  not  wonder. 

It  is  difficult  to  understand  how  a  man  can 
refuse  to  defend  his  motherland  when  she  is 
attacked  and  her  principles  flaunted.  And 
yet,  dear  Molly,  for  the  same  reasons  that  man 
would  refuse  to  defend  his  mother. 

The  slacker  is  fundamentally  a  coward. 

Now  cowardice  involves  many  things. 
Fear  of  physical  discomfort,  injury  and  death 
is  one — and  this  is  the  least  fear  the  slacker 
knows.  Fear  of  material  loss  is  another. 
And  this  is  his  greatest  fear. 

He  does  not  fear  death,  because  he  cannot 
look  that  far.  He  very  much  fears  material 
loss,  because  that  marks  the  breadth  and  zen- 
ith of  his  vision. 

If  the  slacker  could  see  some  way  to  gain 
advantage  or  make  money  out  of  war,  he 
would  go,  and  go  gladly.  The  slacker  looks 
on  war  as  a  business  proposition:  it  interferes 

54 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    55 

with  commerce,  it  destroys  capital,  it  causes 
mercantile  uncertainty.  This  no  one  would 
deny. 

It  is  also  part  of  the  metabolism  of  the  race 
— the  constant  tearing  down  and  tireless  build- 
ing up,  the  growth  and  decay  that  constitute 
the  human  struggle  toward  perfection. 

This  war  must  have  come  sooner  or  later, 
for  the  cancer  of  German  autocracy  was  fast 
spreading  over  the  fair  body  of  the  world. 
Only  an  heroic  measure  could  stop  it.  And 
we  chose  that  measure. 

What  if  our  wealth  does  slip  through  our 
hands,  what  if  the  fields  do  whiten  with  the 
bones  of  countless  sons,  if  only  we  can  ac- 
complish this  purpose?  For  we  live  not  for 
to-day  but  for  to-morrow. 

Life  begins  to-morrow. 

You  gave  of  yourself  in  pain  that  a  son 
might  be  born,  and  his  father  labored  not  for 
his  own  advantage  but  that  that  son  might  be 
better  fitted  to  carry  on  the  work  in  his  own 
generation.  You  have  lived  and  worked  for 
to-morrow. 

To-day,  your  son  bears  onward  that  ideal, 
willing,  if  need  be,  to  give  his  life  for  it,  even 


56    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

as  you  were  willing  to  give  your  life  for  it. 

Of  these  things  the  slacker  knows  naught. 
To-morrow  is  only  another  day  to  him. 

To  you  and  to  the  men  in  France,  to-mor- 
row is  a  huge  opportunity  toward  which  the 
race  must  progress  at  all  costs.  They  are 
storming  the  ramparts  of  th*"  future,  these  lads. 
Their  eyes  behold  the  to-mc ltow  of  the  world. 


"The  MiU,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly  Mine, 

To-day  as  I  was  going  for  my  train,  traffic 
was  blocked  to  let  a  regiment  pass.  It  was 
marching  off  to  camp. 

There  was  some  sporadic  cheering;  a  woman 
behind  me  broke  into  tears.  But,  on  the 
whole,  the  pavements  were  quiet.  It  was  no 
hour  for  exultation,  and  I  was  glad  there  was 
little  of  it.  The  men  slipped  by,  rank  on  rank, 
in  that  quiet  fashion  our  soldiers  march.  Fi- 
nally came  the  line  of  mounted  police,  and  the 
crowd  surged  across  the  street. 

"All  kids,"  remarked  a  man  at  my  elbow. 

And  they  were,  for  the  most  part, — "big,  in- 
tolerant, gallant  boys." 

It  seemed  a  hideous  waste  to  send  such  lads 
forth  to  battle.  It  seemed  to  be  robbing 
them  of  so  much  of  life — life  full  of  oppor- 
tunity, of  sunshine  and  laughter.  Yet,  as 
they  passed,  I  could  not  help  saying  to  them, 
"Young  men,  I  hail  you  on  the  threshold  of 

great  careers!" 

67 


58     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

In  our  poor,  blind,  stupid  way  we  try  to 
measure  the  value  of  life  by  length  of  years. 
We  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  extolling  old 
age,  of  thinking  that  long  years  are  necessa- 
rily full  years.     And  it  is  all  wrong. 

Time  has  little  to  do  with  achievement. 
Earnestness,  sincerity,  devotion  have;  and 
these  qualities  youth  possesses.  Old  men  daw- 
dle, procrastinate,  question;  youth  plunges 
ahead,  drives  direct  to  his  goal  and  never  rests 
until  he  achieves  it.  Life  is  valuable  only  ac- 
cording to  the  intensity  with  which  it  is  lived. 

There  are,  of  course,  hundreds  of  men  who 
have  not  achieved  until  well  past  middle  hfe. 
But  they  are  exceptions.  This  is  the  age  of 
the  young  man.  The  young  man  who  has  not 
achieved  something  definite  by  thirty-two,  or 
is  on  the  road  to  attaining  it,  had  better  look 
to  his  honors.  As  William  Allen  White  said: 
"Few  men  who  have  much  to  say  or  do,  say  it 
or  do  it  after  forty." 

Thousands  of  lads  have  gone  down  in  this 
war  whose  civil  careers  were  suddenly  and  cru- 
elly cut  off.  Yet,  wouldn't  you  say  that  their 
death  was  their  crowning  achievement? 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    59 

"These  laid  the  world  away;  poured  out  the  red 
Sweet  wine  of  youth;  gave  up  the  years  to  be 
Of  work  and  j  oy,  and  that  unhoped  serene. 
That  men  call  age." 

We  cannot  measure  the  fullness  of  a  man's 
life  by  the  fact  that  he  appears  to  get  the  best 
out  of  life,  but  that  life  gets  the  best  out  of 
him.  A  man  starts  to  die  the  day  life  ceases 
to  draw  from  him  some  contribution  for  the 
race. 

In  the  ranks  of  those  men  I  saw  to-day  there 
may  have  been  scores  who  ceased  living  long 
ago,  who  ceased  giving  to  life.  To  them  the 
war  has  come  as  another  chance,  a  veritable 
resurrection  wherein  they  will  redeem  the  debt 
charged  against  them  by  the  one  huge  pay- 
ment of  life  itself. 


The  Club 
Dear  Molly, 

I  am  watching  an  extraordinary  sight. 

It  is  five  o'clock.  The  grill  is  filled  to  ca- 
pacity. Every  table  is  occupied  and  extra 
chairs  have  been  brought  in  from  the  writing- 
room. 

Half  the  men  are  in  khaki — officers  for  the 
greater  part,  with  a  scattering  of  navy  men  in 
white  suits.  And — this  is  the  extraordinary 
part — not  a  man  in  that  grill  is  drinking  any- 
thing stronger  than  ginger  ale. 

The  club  complies  with  the  law  which  for- 
bids the  sale  of  intoxicants  to  men  in  uniform. 
The  men  in  civilians'  comply  with  good  taste, 
and  do  not  drink  intoxicants  in  the  presence  of 
men  who  cannot  have  them. 

A  year  ago  most  of  those  men  would  have 
been  drinking  cocktails  and  highballs. 

The  good  or  evil  of  these  drinks  is  not  my 
concern.  The  fact  is  that  prohibition  is  com- 
ing in  a  way  we  least  expected.  It  is  non- 
drinking  by  mutual  consent. 

60 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    61 

If  you  want  to  stop  an  evil,  put  it  in  the 
category  of  those  things  which  "aren't  done." 
That  is  what  the  army  did,  and  to-day  the  man 
who  drinks  an  intoxicant  in  the  presence  of 
the  man  in  uniform  is  simply  out  of  it.  We 
require  no  presidential  exactment  or  ukase 
from  a  tsar  to  prohibit  strong  drink.  The 
consensus  of  opinion  considers  it  bad  taste. 

Nor  do  I  think  the  fashion  will  come  back. 
Over  a  million  soldiers  in  America  to-day  are 
not  drinking.  Some,  because  the  law  forbids, 
but  most  of  them  because  a  man  cannot  be  a 
drinker  and  a  good  soldier  at  the  same  time. 
When  peace  comes,  there  will  be  a  million  men 
who  will  have  learned  that  a  clear  head  is  the 
principal  essential  in  business  for  holding 
down  any  kind  of  a  job. 

Yes,  war  is  a  terrible  thing.  It  is  a  con- 
suming fire.    But  fire  is  also  cleansing. 


The  Office 
Dear  Molly, 

Can  a  man  retrieve  himself  by  the  manner 
of  his  dying? 

The  other  day  I  wrote  you  that  I  beheved 
he  could.  I  said  that  some  men  would  redeem 
the  debt  charged  against  them  by  the  one  huge 
payment  of  life  itself.  There  are  many  of 
our  soldiers  who  will.  I  know  of  a  number  of 
men  in  the  British  and  Russian  army  who  al- 
ready have. 

There  was  Ivan  S — — ,  captain  of  the  4th 
Amur  Rifles,  a  Cossack  I  met  in  Blagowest- 
chensk.  I  was  dining  at  the  "Metropole" 
when  he  first  came  in — a  huge  mountain  of  a 
man  with  a  face  like  a  clenched  fist,  and  a  most 
unenviable  record.  He  had  been  sent  out  to 
a  Siberian  command  to  *'cool  off,"  having  dis- 
graced himself  by  debauchery  and  cruelty  in 
St.  Petersburg  which  even  that  giddy  capital 
could  not  condone  or  forget.  Scarcely  a  man 
in  his  barracks  mess  but  loathed  him,  for,  in- 
stead of  cooling  off,  S grew  all  the  worse 

62 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    63 

in  this  Asiatic  frontier  post.  Nightly,  his 
orderly  would  take  him  home  intoxicated,  and 
nightly  he  would  thrash  his  orderly.  It  was 
rumored  that  he  had  killed  two  orderlies  al- 
ready. 

I  knew  S because  he  challenged  me  to  a 

duel.  After  that  we  were  friends — ^bowing 
friends. 

A  mutual  acquaintance  in  the  Russian  army 
has  just  written  me  that  he  fell  in  the  Caucasus 
campaign  last  winter. 

It  was  a  bitterly  cold  night.  His  company 
had  been  cut  off  from  communication  with  the 
rear  by  heavy  snow-drifts.  Man  after  man 
had  been  killed  or  frozen  to  death  trying  to 

bring  up  food.     This  night  S kept  his 

men  in  the  dugout  where  there  was  a  fire  and 
took  the  watches  on  the  listening  post  himself. 

They  found  him  the  next  morning  several 
yards  in  front  of  the  trench.  His  body  was 
riddled  with  bullets  and  frozen  stiff.  Beside 
him  lay  a  dead  Turk  with  fresh  bandages  on 

his  head.     S had  heard  his  cry  for  help 

during  the  night  and  had  crept  out  to  dress  his 
wounds. 

Thus  died  one  of  the  vilest  blackguards  I 


64    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

have  ever  known — an  utterly  wicked  man,  a 
murderer,  a  drunkard,  a  lecher.  But  he  went 
out  alone,  and  in  the  darkness  gave  his  life  to 

succor  a  foe.     If  S that  night  did  not 

sweep  the  books  clear  by  the  huge  gift  of  life 
itself,  then  I  am  willing  to  become  an  uncom- 
promising atheist. 

Thousands  of  deeds  like  this,  and  even 
braver,  have  been  crowded  into  the  past  three 
years.  Men  who  in  their  private  lives  have 
refused  to  live  and  labor  for  an  ideal  have  been 
willing  to  fling  away  their  lives  for  it.  From 
the  nadir  of  evil  many  a  man  has  risen  to  a 
sublime  occasion  in  this  war,  risen  to  the  very 
zenith  of  moral  achievement.  It  is  not  when 
nor  where  they  died  that  counted,  but  how.. 
And  because  they  died  so  magnificently,  the 
world  is  a  better  place  for  you  and  me  to  live 
in. 

"I,  if  I  be  lifted  up,  wiU  draw  all  men  unto 
me,"  runs  the  promise. 

In  that  lonely  hour,  poor  S was  indeed 

lifted  up — lifted  up  from  a  plane  of  evil  living 
and  crime  to  a  plane  of  uttermost  sacrifice  and 
purity,  lifted  up  as  an  example  to  men,  that 
they  might  be  nobler  for  his  one  noble  deed. 


"The  MiU,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

Don't  blame  me  if  I  get  blasphemous.  The 
mere  mention  of  disloyal,  alleged  Americans 
sickens  me,  makes  me  suspicious,  ashamed. 
Yet,  on  second  sober  thought,  I  have  the  most 
serious  heart-searchings. 

If  our  foreign  born  citizens — our  Irish- 
Americans,  German- Americans,  and  Russian 
Jews  are  so  bitterly  opposed  to  our  part  in  this 
war,  then  something  must  be  wrong  with 
American  methods  of  naturalization.  Our 
boasted  melting  pot  isn't  working  the  way  it 
should.  If  after  these  generations  of  peace 
and  prosperity  we  have  failed  to  absorb  these 
people,  failed  to  make  our  country  their  coun- 
try and  our  flag  their  flag,  then  it  is  about  time 
we  looked  into  the  matter. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  blame  German  propa- 
ganda and  bribery  for  this,  but  something  is 
wrong  with  us  if  it  is  possible  to  bribe  these 
people. 

The  other  day  I  was  reading  an  article  on 

65 


66    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

gardens  by  George  Cable  that  gives  an  inter- 
esting parallel. 

"As  soon  as  you  pass  out  of  the  domain  of 
formal  gardening,  gardening  submitted  to  a 
severe  architecture,  our  gardening  is  a  con- 
quest of  nature  around  us ;  but  it  is  not  a  Ger- 
man conquest.  It  is  a  benevolent,  gracious 
naturalization  of  nature  to  citizenship  under 
the  home's  domain,  and  an  American  garden 
should  remain  American  whatever  it  borrows 
from  Japan,  England,  Italy  or  Holland.  .  .  . 
At  least  four-fifths  of  all  the  commonest  and 
most  beautiful  things  in  our  garden  are  ex- 
^otics,  but  they  are  naturalized  citizens  and 
have  themselves  long  forgotten  that  they  came 
from  China,  Scotland,  Persia,  or  the  islands  of 
the  seven  seas." 

A  benevolent,  gracious  naturalization  to 
citizenship  under  the  home's  domain. 

We  have  been  benevolent.  No  nation  un- 
der the  sun  is  more  benevolent  to  its  newcom- 
ers. We  have  been  gracious  and  hospitable 
and  willing  to  tolerate  all  manner  of  misun- 
derstanding and  imposition.  But  I  wonder 
if  we  have  been  naturalizing  these  new  people 
to  citizenship  under  the  home's  domain? 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     67 

Our  great  wealth  and  the  apparent  ease 
with  which  money  can  be  made  here  have  given 
us  the  reputation  of  a  purely  material  people. 
Many  foreigners  come  to  America  in  the  same 
spirit  that  a  man  goes  to  a  sanitarium — not  to 
dwell  there  for  the  rest  of  life,  but  to  recuper- 
ate or  gain  immediate  financial  health  in  the 
shortest  time  possible  and  by  the  most  inten- 
sive methods. 

The  second  generation  of  foreigners — de- 
scendants of  the  men  who  came  to  stay — are 
unquestionably  loyal  to  this  country,  because 
they  have  been  naturalized  to  citizenship  under 
the  home's  domain.  The  first  generation  has 
a  divided  allegiance  because  we  Americans 
have  failed  to  make  the  home  the  reason  for 
living  here.  America  was  once  a  harbor  for 
the  persecuted,  where  they  could  set  up  their 
homes  and  live  without  molestation.  To-day 
it  is  a  place  to  make  money. 

I  do  not  mean  to  make  a  sweeping  general- 
ization about  the  weakness  of  the  American 
home,  but  I  do  know  that  on  the  other  side  the 
American  home  has  been  painted  in  colors 
which  make  it  a  byword  and  a  mockery.  Our 
divorces  reek  to  Heaven,  our  over-night  mil- 


68    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

lionaires  act  like  mad  men,  our  slavery  to  ab- 
surd conventions,  our  respect  for  material  ac- 
cumulation and  our  socially  ambitious  middle 
class — all  these  pale  the  ideal  of  home  into 
insignificance. 

Simplicity,  loyalty,  thrift,  hard  work — on 
these  principles  the  domain  of  the  home  is 
built.  Let  us  set  up  these  standards,  let  us 
impress  them  on  every  foreigner  coming  to 
our  shores.  Let  us  forever  stamp  out  that  vile 
reputation  of  easy  money,  fast  living  and  loose 
loving.  Let  us  give  these  exotics,  whom  we 
would  naturalize  in  this  beautiful  garden  of 
America,  a  decent  soil  in  which  to  take  root 
and  grow  sturdily.  Then  and  only  then  will 
the  flower  of  their  loyalty  blossom. 

No,  Molly,  the  fault  is  not  so  often  in  the 
seed.  Where  most  gardens  fail,  and  where 
America  has  failed,  is  that  we  have  not  chosen 
and  prepared  the  right  soil  in  which  to  plant  it. 


TTie  Office 
Dear  Sis, 

I  often  wish  you  were  in  New  York  these 
days.  There  are  so  many  unforgetable  sights. 
Enthusiasm  keeps  at  a  white  heat  here. 
There  is  constant  parading.  Khaki  crowds 
the  pavements.  The  city  wears  a  cosmopoH- 
tan  air  with  its  alhed  flags  and  men  in  varied 
uniforms — Kilties  and  French  poilus  and  Brit- 
ish officers  and  an  occasional  Cossack  in  full 
sweeping  skirts  and  black  sheepskin  hat. 
You  would  wonder  how  the  exalted  spirit  can 
be  sustained,  yet  with  each  new  parade  the 
crowds  grow  larger. 

Last  week  I  looked  up  Fifth  Avenue,  and 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  see  stretched  a  field  of 
bayonets,  swaying  to  the  rhythm  of  a  march, 
like  wheat  blown  by  the  wind. 

This  week  it  was  a  vision  of  great  mercy. 
Red  Cross  nurses  paraded — thousands  of 
them.  The  whiteness  of  their  uniforms  was  a 
strange  contrast  to  the  earth-brown  of  the  men 
who  had  marched  before.  I  never  saw  so 
many  women  with  kindly  eyes. 

69 


70     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

All  these  parades  have  been  going  south — 
toward  trains  and  ferries  and  camps  and 
troopships.  As  they  pass  I  close  my  eyes  and 
dream  for  an  instant  that  they  are  marching 
north,  up  that  avenue — ^toward  home. 


Quebec 
Dear  Molly, 

I  am  writing  on  Dufferin  Terrace,  the 
broad  esplanade  that  looks  out  over  the  St. 
Lawrence  and  the  houses  huddled  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  From  the  citadel  above  comes  the 
occasional  rant  of  bugles  and  the  "pock"  of 
guns  at  target  practise.  A  Scottish  regiment 
is  barracked  there.  I  fell  in  with  a  group  of 
the  men  yesterday.  They  have  not  yet  been 
across,  and  barracks  life  is  beginning  to  get 
on  their  nerves. 

"Better  be  fightin'  than  loafin',"  one  burly 
Scot  remarked. 

"Loafing  is  safer,"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,  but  what  difference  does  it  make?"  he 
answered.  "You've  got  to  go  out  some  way, 
sometime.     Lots  of  'em  have." 

It  sounded  strangely  like  fatalism,  yet  the 
more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more  I  see  that  fatal- 
ism is  the  wrong  word. 

We  hear  a  lot  about  soldiers  being  fatalists, 

71 


72    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

not  caring  how  they  die  because  they  have  to 
die  sometime.  It  paints  a  picture  of  men 
cruel  and  unbeheving,  scornful  of  the  ends  of 
living. 

This  may  have  been  true  of  previous  wars; 
certainly  it  was  true  of  some  soldiers  in  the 
Russian  and  Japanese  armies.  But  the  Russo- 
Japanese  War  was  a  picayune  game  of  capi- 
talists fighting  for  commercial  control  over 
territory.  The  war  we  are  in  is  the  biggest 
event  the  world  has  ever  seen;  it  is  being 
fought  for  the  maintenance  of  the  fundamen- 
tal ideals  of  civilization.  The  philosophy  be- 
hind it  is  bewildering,  the  heroism  it  has  called 
forth  is  amazing,  the  destruction  it  has  occa- 
sioned appalls  even  the  most  hardened.  Men 
who  go  into  it  are  engulfed  in  a  thing  so 
supremely  bigger  than  themselves  that  per- 
sonal safety,  personal  considerations,  personal 
interests  are  entirely  dwarfed  and  over- 
whelmed. They  lose  identity  in  the  vastness 
of  the  cause  they  serve.  One  man  writing 
from  the  trenches  has  put  it:  "We  have  no 
business  worries,  everything  we  do  is  under  or- 
ders, and  we  have  the  perpetual  sense  of  mak- 
ing our  infinitesimal  contribution  to  the  biggest 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    73 

and  most  unselfish  sacrifice  that  the  world  has 
seen  up  to  date." 

Perhaps  you  have  felt  this  at  times — ^how 
insignificant  you  are,  how  entirely  submissive 
you  become  in  the  presence  of  some  great  nat- 
ural phenomenon — a  storm  at  sea,  a  terrific 
clap  of  thunder,  the  roar  of  Niagara,  the  in- 
comprehensible and  silent  immensity  of  the 
Grand  Canyon.  Your  physical  being  may 
stiffen,  but  at  heart  you  are  resigned,  humbled, 
emptied  of  self.  You  become  obedient  to  a 
will  not  your  own.  Something  of  that  same 
spirit  makes  the  soldier  unafraid  to  die. 

It  is  the  psychology  of  heroism  that  in  the 
face  of  inexorable  duty  man  loses  the  recollec- 
tion of  self  and  acquires  a  contempt  of  fear. 
The  instinct  of  self-preservation  fails  to  func- 
tion once  a  man  is  flooded  with  the  vastness  of 
his  purpose. 

The  immediate  purpose  of  battle,  the  pur- 
poses the  soldier  feels  at  the  time,  is  to  kill  his 
enemies — as  many  of  them  as  he  can.  Don't 
make  any  mistake  about  that.  Don't  think 
that  the  soldiers  of  France  or  England  or  Can- 
ada bother  their  heads  about  autocracy  or  de- 
mocracy when  they  go  over  the  top.     They  are 


74    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

fighting  for  very  life  itself — theirs  and  ours. 
They  are  glad  to  give  their  lives  if,  by  the  sac- 
rifice, they  can  avenge  the  brutal  death  of  their 
comrades  and  the  filthy  and  diabolical  outrages 
committed  upon  their  women,  their  children, 
and  their  homes. 

But  back  of  this  hate  looms  the  gigantic  fig- 
ure of  the  ideal,  an  ideal  bigger  than  any  man 
and  the  dreams  of  any  man. 

From  a  war  against  invasion  has  developed 
a  war  against  tyranny.  We  are  fighting  as 
much  for  the  foe  as  for  ourselves.  Your  son  is 
offering  his  life  to-day  that  German  boys  a 
century  from  now  will  not  be  driven  forth  to 
certain  death  by  a  military  machine.  "This 
war  must  not  be  sterile,"  said  Alfred  Cazalis. 
"From  all  these  deaths  there  must  burst  forth 
new  life  for  mankind." 

True,  hundreds  of  men  do  not  comprehend 
the  vastness  of  the  ideals  for  which  they  are 
fighting.  What  overwhelms  them  is  the  im- 
mediate clash  of  arms  symbolizing  the  call  to 
duty  and  sacrifice  in  defense  of  these  ideals. 

That  is  what  overwhelmed  my  Kiltie  friend 
of  Dufferin  Terrace.  There  was  a  deep  and 
sober  thought  behind  his  apparent  cynicism 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    75 

about  going  out  "sometime,  somewhere." 
What  he  really  meant  was  that  living  can  be- 
come inconsequential  when  there  is  something 
bigger  to  die  for. 


Quebec 
Dear  Molly, 

They  were  of  that  caste  one  sees  creeping 
out  of  big  office  buildings  at  dawn — scrub- 
women; oldish,  with  patched  clothes,  trailing 
skirts,  hats  tilted  over  one  eye,  and  hands 
gnarled  from  a  lifetime  in  the  suds. 

"I  wish  to  God  my  own  was  on  her!"  one 
said. 

"I  wish  to  God  my  own  was  on  her,  too," 
the  other  replied. 

"Her"  was  a  boat  that  lay  beside  the  wharf. 
She  wore  white  with  a  broad  green  girdle  below 
her  guard  rail  and  huge  red  crosses,  two  to  a 
side  and  one  in  electric  lights  swung  between 
her  funnels.  Her  rails  were  manned  with 
khaki — earth-brown  men,  with  here  and  there 
the  blue  of  a  nurse's  uniform  and  the  white 
flutter  of  her  veil  as  the  wind  played  with  it. 

There  were  eight  hundred  of  them,  wounded, 
broken,  parts  of  men.  But  as  the  hawser  slid 
down  over  the  wharf  bits  they  raised  a  cheer 
that  ricocheted  for  blocks  along  the  waterfront. 

76 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    77 

These  eight  hundred  had  been  over  there, 
done  their  bit,  and  were  being  sent  home.  A 
few  months  hence  they  would  be  civilians 
again,  going  about  their  various  duties  through 
the  Canadian  streets,  with  naught  to  mark 
them  save  a  service  button  on  their  coat,  that 
limp,  that  missing  limb,  those  scars.  To-day 
they  were  taking  their  first  step  back  to  the  old 
life.  They  hobbled  down  the  gangplank, 
sniffed  the  air,  and  passed  through  the  gate 
into  the  city. 

It  isn't  the  going  over  there  that's  so  hard, 
they  say,  but  the  coming  back.  When  you 
part,  every  one  else  is  parting — that  makes  it 
easier.  When  you  come  back  there  are  those 
who  wish  to  God  their  own  were  on  her — and 
are  not  and  never  can  be. 

They  were  a  quiet  crew,  despite  their  cheers. 
They  asked  for  cigarettes  and  telegraph  blanks 
— that  was  the  extent  of  their  desires.  They 
had  little  to  say  about  themselves,  for  such  men 
are  "purged  of  pride";  and  but  little  to  say 
about  the  men  who  would  not  return.  They 
were  changed.  They  had  "conquered  self  for 
the  sake  of  an  ideal";  they  were  reborn  men. 
You  could  see  it  in  the  glint  of  the  eye,  the 


78     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

carriage  of  the  head,  the  way  they  looked  at 
you. 

Yes,  we  were  all  changed — even  the  crones. 

"I  wish  to  God  my  own  was  on  her!"  the  one 
kept  moaning. 

"Cheero,  dearie!"  the  other  said.  "Remem- 
ber, dearie,  we've  got  to  keep  the  home  fires 
burnin'." 


Quebec 
Dearest  Molly, 

The  three  of  them  are  sitting  on  a  sofa  in  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  lounge.  His  mother 
and  father  came  yesterday — a  tall,  raw-boned, 
sallow  man  with  a  scrawny  neck,  a  pronounced 
Adam's  apple  and  a  fringy  mustache;  and  a 
round-faced,  red-cheeked,  dumpy  little  woman 
in  her  best  clothes.  They  are  evidently  from 
the  country,  and  have  come  up  to  meet  him 
and  are  staying  at  this  big,  expensive  hotel  so 
that  he  can  have  every  possible  comfort. 

He  arrived  to-day  in  the  Red  Cross  ship. 
His  left  arm  is  gone. 

When  I  passed  him  a  moment  ago,  I  noticed 
how  young  he  was.  The  down  is  still  on  his 
cheeks  although  he  stands  over  six  feet.  He  is 
fair  haired  and  blue  eyed ;  and  his  color  is  rosy. 
He  cannot  be  more  than  twenty. 

They  have  been  sitting  there  for  half  an 
hour,  now.     They  do  not  say  much. 

The  mother  looks  as  though  she  had  been 
weeping  inside — weeping  without  tears.     She 

79 


80    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

busies  herself  with  little  attentions  for  him — 
fetches  him  a  match,  gets  him  a  paper;  a  mo- 
ment ago  she  bought  him  a  bar  of  chocolate. 
She  cannot  sit  still,  although  she  is  trying  very 
hard  to  be  cheerful.  She  laughs,  but  the  smile 
dies  off  the  corner  of  her  mouth.  Now  and 
then  she  steals  a  glance  up  at  him,  and  looks 
away  quickly.  She  seems  to  be  trying  to  think 
of  things  to  do  to  please  him,  things  she  is 
going  to  do  in  the  days  when  they  get  back 
home — pies  and  cakes,  and  comfortable  chairs 
in  the  sun,  and  clean,  snow-white  sheets  on  the 
bed,  and  soft  pillows. 

His  father  sits  very  still  and  says  scarcely 
anything.  Now  and  then  he  tugs  at  his  f ringy 
mustache,  and  his  Adam's  apple  bobs  convul- 
sively. He  is  on  the  side  of  the  missing  arm. 
He  tries  not  to  see  it,  but  leans  back  against  the 
cushions  occasionally,  and  furtively  glances  up 
at  the  boy's  profile.  I  cannot  tell  what  he  is 
thinking.  He  seems  dulled  by  an  amazement 
of  inarticulate  pride. 

Between  them  the  boy  sits  very  straight  and 
unbending.  He  nibbles  at  the  chocolate  and 
smiles  down  occasionally  at  his  mother.  Most 
of  the  time,  though,  he  looks  straight  before 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    81 

him,  and  his  glance  penetrates  time  and  space. 

I  would  not  presume  to  say  what  he  is  think- 
ing. I  only  know  that  his  face  to-day  is  not 
the  face  of  the  lad  who  left  home  for  the  serv- 
ice three  years  ago.  Faces  like  that  do  not 
grow  on  farms.  It  is  beautiful  beyond  words, 
tender,  strong  and  glistening.  The  light  that 
glows  from  it  is  transcendent,  glorified.  He 
has  looked  on  the  Thing  which  ever  after  makes 
a  man  homesick  in  his  home,  unable  to  rest  on 
earth  again.  There  is  a  great  desire  in  it,  the 
light  of  a  vast  comprehension,  the  radiant  fire 
of  a  consuming  love. 

I  wonder  if  his  mother  and  father  guess  what 
that  look  means  I 


En  route  to  Montreal 
Dear  Molly, 

Here's  a  new  brand  of  pro-Germanism.  It 
came  from  a  stranger — evidently  a  Jewish- 
American — who  drifted  into  the  smoking-car 
this  morning. 

"Well,  after  all,"  he  said  deprecatingly,  "wq 
Americans  aren't  really  interested  in  this  war. 
We're  in  it  now  and  we've  got  to  see  it  through, 
but  the  general  feeling  isn't  strong  and 
united." 

When  I  got  through  with  him  he  ate  his 
words. 

For  only  last  week  on  my  way  up  here  I 
passed  through  a  number  of  small  towns  and 
the  sort  of  feeling  I  discovered,  even  in  the 
most  out-of-way  village,  was  a  burning,  ardent 
patriotism. 

There  was  Montague,  for  instance,  where  I 
put  up  over  night.  Montague  has  no  more 
than  two  hundred  souls  all  told,  most  of  them 
old  folks  and  little  children,  for  the  young  men 
go  to  the  cities  as  soon  as  they  reach  an  earning 

82 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    83 

age.  That  accounts  for  the  fact  that,  when  the 
call  came,  Montague  had  but  one  boy  to  give — 
Jim,  the  hostler  at  the  hotel. 

Jim  didn't  want  to  go.  He  had  been  at  that 
job  for  eight  years  and  had  not  gone  farther 
away  from  the  town  than  a  radius  of  ten  miles. 
He  liked  his  work,  he  was  steady,  faithful, 
kind.  He  loved  the  horses  and  used  to  talk  to 
them  in  his  own  peculiar  brand  of  Yankee  dia- 
lect.    No,  war  didn't  attract  him  at  all. 

Then  the  boss  and  he  had  a  quiet  session  to- 
gether in  some  corner  of  the  barn,  and  from 
that  moment  on  Jim  flamed  with  ardor  for  the 
service.  He  is  drilling  at  a  camp  down  South 
now,  and  the  old  folks  in  town  speak  of  him  as 
a  hero.  A  rumor  ran  through  the  town  last 
Sunday  night  that  Jim  had  leave  of  absence  for 
a  couple  of  days  and  might  be  back — soldier 
clothes  and  all.  Half  the  people  sat  up  till 
midnight  waiting  for  him.  But  something 
happened  and  he  could  not  get  there.  They 
spoke  of  it  in  tones  of  genuine  regret. 

For  to  the  natives  of  Montague  Jim  is  more 
than  a  common  soldier.  He  is  their  personal 
representative  at  the  front,  their  sole  contribu- 
tion, their  link  with  the  terrible  things  going  on 


84    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

over  there.  They  speak  of  the  war  in  terms  of 
Jim ;  they  eat  no  beef  two  days  a  week  because 
of  Jim;  they  bake  less  wheat  bread  and  more 
com  bread  because  of  Jim;  they  knit  hour  by 
hour  and  snip  lint  and  roll  bandages  because 
Jim  has  gone  to  the  front. 

The  natives  of  Montague  do  not  consider 
Jim  a  symbol,  but  a  symbol  Jim  is,  neverthe- 
less, just  as  to  you  Harry  is  a  symbol  and  to 
my  neighbor  Walton  Al  is  a  symbol. 

We  live  our  lives  in  symbols  and  for  symbols 
we  make  our  sacrifices — for  a  bit  of  bunting, 
for  a  uniform,  for  a  sign  set  in  the  sky.  The 
great  ideals  of  this  war  are  too  gigantic  for  us 
to  grasp  in  their  entirety.  In  the  white  heat 
of  the  world's  fury  we  cannot  see  the  crucible 
that  holds  our  precious  aspirations.  We  can 
only  see,  looming  large  before  us,  the  figures  of 
the  men  who  tend  that  furnace.  They  are  our 
boys.  The  war  means  them.  For  them  we 
are  a  united  people,  and  for  them  we  will  make 
our  sacrifices.  We  will  eat  less,  we  will  spend 
less,  we  will  do  without,  that  added  strength 
may  be  given  them. 

Our  unity  lies  in  our  abiding  interest  in  the 
symbols  that  represent  us  and  our  cause. 


Montreal 
Dear  Molly, 

The  thing  that  amazes  me  about  these  re- 
turned Canadian  soldiers  is  their  infinite  supe- 
riority to  the  rest  of  the  people.  Not  that 
they  show  it,  not  that  they  speak  it,  but  that 
they  are. 

In  the  presence  of  a  common  soldier  with  the 
gold  braid  of  a  wound  on  his  arm  I  feel  pecul- 
iarly humbled.  I  owe  so  much  to  him.  He 
has  been  fighting  for  three  years  to  keep  our 
homes  safe.  We  have  only  just  discovered 
that  they  were  in  danger. 


85 


Montreal 
Dear  Molly, 

This  morning  I  drifted  into  a  church.  I  had 
not  intended  going,  because  it  was  so  warm  and 
sunny  outside,  but  the  sound  of  an  organ 
caught  my  ear  and  I  went  in. 

I  expected  a  congregation  crowded  with 
black,  for  this  city  has  paid  a  heavy  toll  of  lives 
in  the  recent  British  advances.  The  women 
wore  anything  but  black.  Later  in  the  day  I 
mentioned  it  to  my  host. 

"No,  we  aren't  wearing  mourning,  by  com- 
mon consent.  Too  many  of  us  have  lost  our 
dear  ones  to  mourn,  and  the  work  ahead  is  too 
gigantic  for  us  to  stop  and  think  about  the  con- 
ventions of  dress." 

It  sounded  a  bit  cruel  at  first,  but  I  saw 
what  it  meant.  These  Canadian  women  have 
thrown  everything  into  the  crucible  of  the  war 
— ^their  husbands,  their  sons,  their  brothers, 
their  pride  and  vanities,  their  hopes  and  dreams 
— even  their  sorrows.  It  takes  great  faith  to 
do  that,  Molly  dear,  and  greater  fortitude  to 

86 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    87 

go  on  doing  it  when  the  end  is  nowhere  in  sight. 
Of  you  American  mothers  the  same  price  will 
be  exacted.  In  that  day  I  know  you  will  all 
be  as  brave. 

Not  long  ago  I  sat  with  a  mother  whose  son 
has  gone  to  France  with  our  army.  She  had 
seven  children,  and  she  brought  up  each  of 
them  according  to  his  capacities.  One  adopted 
the  army  as  his  profession,  and  he  has  been  in 
it  now  four  years.  When  the  order  came  to 
go  abroad  he  wrote  his  mother,  "I  am  going  to 
France.  I  may  never  come  back.  But  with 
that  I  am  satisfied.  I  know  this  is  exactly  the 
sort  of  thing  you  hoped  I  would  do  if  the 
chance  came." 

"And  it  is,"  she  said.  "I  raised  him  to  be  a 
soldier.  He  is  my  youngest,  and  he  always 
wanted  to  be  a  soldier,  so  I  helped  him  all  I 
could  to  be  a  good  one.  If  he  had  failed  now, 
I  would  consider  that  I  had  failed  as  a  mother. 
I  would  be  ashamed,  not  because  of  his  weak- 
ness, but  because  of  mine." 

She  knows  little  of  the  world,  this  mother, 
little  of  books  and  dress  and  the  things  most  of 
us  take  pleasure  in.  Her  world  is  her  children. 
She  has  lived  for  them  alone,  and  her  devotion 


88    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

encompasses  them.  Her  reward  is  their  suc- 
cess— the  attaimnent  of  the  men  and  women 
she  dreamed  they  would  be.  She  is  but  one  of 
the  milhon  mothers  in  America  to-day  who 
have  sent  their  sons  forth  to  battle,  but  to  me 
she  is  the  mother  of  America. 

I  take  her  frail  hands  and  feel  in  them  the 
strength  of  myriad  sons  and  daughters.  I 
look  into  her  eyes  and  behold  the  raptm'ous 
triumph  of  complete  surrender.  I  touch  her 
lips  and  am  made  clean  and  noble  and  strong. 

The  strength  of  America  is  the  vitality  of 
her  energizing  love.  Among  shifting  illusions, 
in  the  strife  and  greed  and  lust  and  empty 
mirth  of  life,  above  the  smoke  and  wrack  of 
battle,  in  the  midst  of  foes,  this  abides — the 
vision  of  her  abundant  sacrifice.  She  who 
gladly  would  have  lost  her  life  that  life  be 
found,  renewed,  reborn,  surrenders  it  once 
more  in  her  sons.  And  in  their  going  forth  she 
has  given  them,  to  treasure  everlastingly,  the 
image  of  all  that  they  might  be. 


Toronto 
Dear  Molly, 

I  am  in  a  strange  household.  It  is  a  big 
country  place  outside  of  Toronto — an  estate, 
in  fact,  and  save  for  the  host  and  his  wife  I 
am  the  only  man  in  mufti  here.     All  the  others, 

fifty  of  them,  are  officers.     Mr.  turned 

over  his  place  as  a  recuperation  camp  to  the 

government.     He  and  Mrs. are  living  in 

the  lodge.  I  have  a  cot  in  what  used  to  be  a 
hostler's  room.  The  big  house  is  fitted  out 
with  all  modern  facilities  for  the  care  of  the 
wounded,  and  both  these  good  people  spend  all 
their  time  helping  the  doctors  and  nurses  look 
after  the  men.  They  are  all  fine  chaps.  Some 
of  them  will  return  to  the  service,  but  several 
of  them  will  never  be  able  to  do  much  except 
sit  about  in  the  sun  until  the  Night  comes 
down. 

One  of  these  chaps  has  quite  won  my  heart. 
He  is  a  university  man,  was  specializing  in  law 
when  the  war  broke  out.     He  was  gassed  and 

89 


90     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

lost  an  arm  at  Mons.  But  he's  plucky,  and 
plans  to  go  on  with  law  when  he's  better. 

Yesterday  I  sat  by  his  chair  and  he  showed 
me  a  collection  of  addresses  to  soldiers  that  he 
was  making.  They  were  reports  from  papers, 
scraps  of  translation,  and  bits  of  diaries  record- 
ing what  commanders  had  said  to  their  men  as 
they  went  into  battle. 

I  am  copying  out  three  of  them  for  you. 
Perhaps  you  might  like  to  send  them  on  to 
Harry. 

The  first  is  the  address  given  his  men  of  the 
Expeditionary  Force  by  Field  Marshal  Kitch- 
ener. The  men  were  told  to  keep  it  in  their 
active  service  paybook  which  they  always 
carry.     It  goes  as  follows : 

You  are  ordered  abroad  as  a  soldier  of  the  King,  to 
help  our  French  comrades  against  the  invasion  of  a  com- 
mon enemy. 

You  have  to  perform  a  task  which  will  need  your  cour- 
age, your  energy  and  your  patience. 

Remember  that  the  honor  of  the  British  army  depends 
on  your  individual  conduct. 

It  will  be  your  duty  not  only  to  set  an  example  of 
discipline  and  perfect  steadiness  under  fire,  but  also  to 
maintain  the  most  friendly  relations  with  those  whom 
you  are  helping  in  this  struggle. 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    91 



The  operations  in  which  you  will  be  engaged  will  for 
the  most  part  take  place  in  a  friendly  country,  and  you 
can  do  your  country  no  better  service  than  in  showing 
yourself  in  France  and  Belgium  in  the  true  character  of 
the  British  soldier  by  being  invariably  courteous,  consid- 
erate and  kind. 

Never  do  anything  likely  to  injure  or  destroy  prop- 
erty, and  always  look  upon  rioting  as  a  disgraceful  act. 

You  are  sure  to  meet  with  a  welcome  and  to  be  trusted. 
Your  conduct  must  justify  that  welcome  and  that  trust. 

Your  duty  cannot  be  done  unless  your  health  is  sound, 
so  keep  constantly  on  your  guard  against  any  excesses. 

In  this  new  experience  you  may  find  temptation  both 
in  wine  and  women.  You  must  entirely  resist  both  temp- 
tations, and  while  treating  all  women  with  perfect  cour- 
tesy you  should  avoid  any  intimacy. 

Do  your  duty  bravely.     Fear  God  and  honor  the  King. 

Another  was  the  address  made  by  a  Japa- 
nese officer  to  his  men  just  before  they  went 
into  a  charge.  It  is  one  of  the  noblest  utter- 
ances I  know: 

Soldiers:  Some  of  us  will  not  be  so  fortunate  as  to 
have  the  honor  of  giving  our  lives  for  our  country  to- 
night, and  we  must  endeavor  not  to  give  them  unneces- 
sarily, as  they  may  be  wanted  for  another  occasion. 

The  strangest  of  all  was  an  order  once  issued 
to  the  Russian  Army  by  General  Dragomiroff 
of  St.  Petersburg.     It  is  called  "The  Soldier's 


92     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

Memento,"  a  strange  mixture  of  piety  and 
practical  advice.  It  sheds  a  light  on  the  Rus- 
sian Army  that  used  to  be  and  the  deep  fire  of 
religion  that  drove  its  men  to  Titanic  sacri- 
fices : 

The  soldier  is  Christ's  warrior. 

Do  not  think  of  yourself,  think  of  your  comrades. 
Perish  if  necessary,  but  save  your  comrades. 

Under  fire,  scatter  yourselves.  March  in  groups  under 
attack,  for  one  must  strike  with  the  fist,  not  with  fingers 
— foot  helps  foot,  hand  strengthens  hand. 

One  misfortune  is  no  misfortune,  two  misfortunes  are 
only  half  a  misfortime.  Breaking  the  ranks,  that  is  mis- 
fortune ! 

Only  he  is  conquered  who  is  afraid. 

Strike;  do  not  ward  off  blows.  If  your  bayonet 
breaks,  strike  with  the  butt-end ;  if  that  breaks,  use  your 
fists;  when  your  fists  are  bleeding,  use  your  teeth.  One 
only  really  fights  when  fighting  to  the  death. 

In  the  battle  the  soldier  is  sentinel;  do  not  let  your 
weapon  fall  from  your  hands,  even  in  death. 

Take  aim  for  each  shot:  shooting  right  and  left  only 
amuses  the  devil. 

Be  careful  with  the  cartridges,  for  if  you  shoot  at 
distance,  you  will  find  an  empty  case  when  you  ought  to 
have  a  full  one.  For  a  real  soldier  thirty  cartridges 
would  suffice  in  the  hottest  fight.  Pick  up  the  cartridges 
of  the  wounded  and  dead. 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    93 

God  protects  the  brave. 

The  good  soldier  has  no  sides  or  back — the  front  is 
always  to  the  enemy. 

Always  face  cavalry — let  it  come  to  200  paces,  fire, 
fix  bayonets,  stand  firm. 

In  war  you  will  neither  eat  nor  sleep  your  fill;  you 
will  be  worn  out.  That  is  war,  and  it  is  a  difficult  trade 
even  for  a  soldier;  but  it  is  terrible  for  a  soft  soldier. 
But  if  it  is  hard  for  you,  it  is  no  better  for  the  enemy. 
You  see  only  your  own  trouble,  not  his;  all  the  same  it 
is  there.  So  do  not  be  discouraged.  You  will  conquer! 
"He  who  perseveres  to  the  end  shall  be  saved." 

Victory  is  not  gained  by  one  blow.  Sometimes  you 
will  not  succeed  at  the  second  or  third — attack  a  fourth 
time,  and  more  often  if  necessary,  until  you  have  attained 
your  end. 

He  who  leaves  the  ranks  during  a  fight  to  help  the 
wounded  is  a  bad  soldier  and  not  a  man  of  feeling.  His 
comrades  are  not  dear  to  him,  but  his  skin  is.  Beat  the 
enemy  and  all  will  be  well,  the  wounded  as  well  as  the 
whole. 

Never  leave  your  place  in  a  march.  One  minute,  and 
you  are  120  steps  behind.     March  gaily. 

Rest  is  not  even  for  all  at  bivouac.  Some  sleep,  some 
watch. 

If  you  are  in  command,  keep  your  men  together 
solidly ;  give  them  reasonable  orders,  and  do  not  command 
them  as  you  would  a  brute.  Begin  by  saying  what  they 
must  do,  so  that  every  man  will  know  where  and  why  he 
goes. 


94    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

Die  for  your  faith,  for  your  Tsar,  for  Russia;  the 
Church  will  pray  for  the  dead,  and  also  for  those  who 
will  live  to  get  honor  and  glory. 

Never  ill-treat  the  inhabitant;  he  will  supply  your 
bread.     The  soldier  is  no  brigand. 

Let  your  clothing  and  weapons  always  be  in  order. 
Take  care  of  your  gun,  your  cartridges,  your' biscuit  and 
your  legs  as  if  they  were  your  eyes.  Wrap  your  feet 
well  in  linen,  and  rub  them  with  fat:  it  is  good. 

The  soldier  must  be  strong,  brave,  firm,  just  and  pious. 
May  God  grant  him  the  victory ! 

Heroes,  God  leads  you.     He  is  your  General! 


Toronto 
Dear,  dear  Molly, 

I  am  too  busy  to  write  much  of  a  letter. 
Haven't  the  heart  for  it  either.  One  of  our 
men  died  last  night — a  lad  of  twenty-five  who 
won  the  D.S.O.  at  Loos.  He  was  an  orphan, 
thank  God,  and  we  are  the  only  ones  to  whom 
his  going  means  much.  He  was  wounded 
three  times,  and  each  time  he  went  back. 
Then  the  Boches  gassed  him. 

Three  years  ago  he  was  a  station  agent  at 
some  little  town  on  the  C.  P.  R.  He  started 
in  as  a  private  and  worked  his  way  up  to  a 
commission  by  sheer  bravery.  It  had  made  a 
gentleman  of  him.  He  told  me  so  himself — 
gave  him  wider  visions  and  bigger  thoughts. 

He  believed  he  was  getting  better  and  he 
looked  forward  to  his  life  ahead  like  a  child 
on  the  night  before  Christmas — impatient, 
eager,  anxious,  fearful  with  the  very  anticipa- 
tion of  it.  Then  suddenly  he  took  a  turn  for 
the  worse,  and  to-night  he  went  out. 

I  know  now  that  a  man  can  lose  the  whole 
world  and  gain  his  soul. 

95 


On  the  way  home 
Dear  Molly, 

You  have  heard  George  and  me  speak  of 
Barker,  Sidney  Barker?  He  was  with  us  in 
college,  in  the  class  below.  A  whole-hearted 
sort  of  chap,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  He 
used  to  have  a  fine  voice  too,  and  was  in  great 
demand  at  college  affairs. 

I  haven't  seen  Sid  for  fifteen  years.  This 
morning  as  I  was  sitting  in  the  chair  car  he 
came  in.  Same  old  boy!  He  slapped  me  on 
the  back  and  asked  if  I  was  making  money 
in  the  writing  game.  I  retaliated  with  the 
same  question  about  automobiles. 

"Money  in  automobiles?  Why,  I  haven't 
made  a  cent  of  money  for  the  past  month. 
Not  a  sou  markee!" 

"The  war  hit  you?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  ah,  not  the  way  you  mean."  He  set 
down  his  bag  and  shoved  his  hat  on  the  back 
of  his  head.  "Come  on  in  the  smoker.  I've 
two  of  the  rottenest  cigars  you  ever  tasted. 
Friend  gave  'em  to  me." 

They  turned  out  to  be  the  sort  that  bank 

96 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    97 

directors  smoke  at  meetings,  but  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there.  Between  puffs  he  told  me  the 
story  of  the  past  few  months. 

For  the  last  ten  years  he  has  been  in  the 
automobile  business,  making  money  hand  over 
fist.  He  had  a  big  house  and  entertained  a 
lot.  His  boy — the  only  child — was  up  at  col- 
lege and  was  graduated  this  June.  The  first 
day  out  of  college  he  joined  the  marines  and 
went  across  with  Pershing.     Just  a  private. 

He  did  it  with  his  father's  consent.  Barker 
always  was  a  big  man. 

But  as  the  days  went  on,  Barker  realized 
that  giving  his  son  to  the  cause  was  not  enough. 
He  wanted  to  give  himself. 

He  and  Mrs.  Barker  talked  it  over,  laid  their 
plans,  and  before  the  week  was  out  they  were 
ready  to  throw  up  their  own  interests  and  join 
the  big  game.  He  sold  out  his  business,  sold 
his  house  and  most  of  the  furniture,  gave  half 
of  the  proceeds  to  the  Red  Cross,  and  then 
offered  his  services  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

When  they  asked  him  what  he  thought  he 
could  do,  he  said  he  could  sing.  Imagine  it! 
A  millionaire,  a  big  executive,  giving  that  as 
his  talent! 


98    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

Well,  they  took  him  at  his  word.  He  could 
sing.  What's  more  he  could  get  along  with 
men.  The  next  thing  he  knew  he  was  ordered 
to  a  cantonment  as  a  song  leader. 

To-day  Mrs.  Barker  has  two  rooms  in  a  lit- 
tle country  hotel  in  a  town  near  the  canton- 
ment and  Barker  sleeps  in  a  bunk  in  the  back 
room  of  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  building. 

"And  d'you  know,  boy,"  he  said,  laying  his 
hand  on  my  arm,  "it's  taken  ten  years  off  our 
lives.  We're  absolutely  wrapped  up  in  it. 
We've  never  been  so  well  and  so  happy.  The 
car's  down  there.  The  Missus  has  it  most  of 
the  time,  because  I'd  rather  hoof  it.  She 
comes  over  every  day  and  sees  that  I  change 
my  shirt,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  she's  play- 
ing around  with  the  officers'  wives  and  knit- 
ting.    Oh,  she's  a  great  little  knitter!" 

"What  do  you  do?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  I  hang  around  the  building,  help 
sweep  it  out  in  the  morning,  take  my  turn  back 
of  the  counter,  talk  to  the  fellows  who  look 
lonely — and  a  lot  of  'em  did  at  first — work 
the  picture  machine  and  lead  the  singing.  We 
sing  almost  every  night — all  the  old  college 
stuff  and  a  lot  of  new  songs  besides.     D'you 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    99 

remember  'The  Bells  of  Hell'?  We  call  that 
'Hjnnn  No.  9/  You  ought  to  hear  'em  sing 
it!"     And  he  went  off  into  a  great  guffaw. 

"Yes,  sir,  I'm  up  at  six  every  morning,  eat 
three  square  meals  a  day,  walk  about  ten  miles, 
and  when  nine  o'clock  comes,  believe  me,  I'm 
ready  for  the  hay!" 

I  only  wish  he  could  have  been  with  me 
longer.  But  he  had  to  stop  off  at  Buffalo. 
He  was  going  to  "hold  up"  a  millionaire  for 
"fifty  thou." 

And  to  think  this  was  the  Barker  I  used  to 
paddle  in  his  freshman  days! 


"The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dear  Molly, 

Home  again,  and  off  to-morrow.  Between 
Barker  and  Canada,  the  war  has  got  under  my 
hide.  It  is  silly  to  work  at  a  desk  any  longer. 
To-morrow  I  go  to  the  cantonment  where 
Barker  is.  If  they  can  find  a  place  for  me,  I'll 
take  it.     I  don't  care  what  it  is. 

Meantime,  here  is  your  letter  of  the  17th 
awaiting  me  when  I  come  home. 

I  knew  you  would  understand  my  letter 
about  the  mothers  of  America.  I  often  think 
of  George  these  days,  too.  Dear  fellow,  how 
proud  he  would  have  been  of  Harry! 

Perhaps  it  is  only  right  that  you  mothers 
should  have  all  our  sympathy,  but  the  fathers 
of  America  are  also  carrying  a  burden  in  their 
hearts  these  days.  Don't  forget  that.  You 
women  can  shake  off  your  loneliness  and  be- 
wilderment  by  knitting  sweaters  and  doing 
Red  Cross  work,  but  a  man  can  only  go  on 
at  the  same  old  job  and  give  every  possible 
cent  to  the  cause. 

100 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    101 

I  don't  suppose  you  mothers  could  be  im- 
proved much,  yet  you  are  not  the  only  ones. 
The  going  of  their  sons  has  worked  a  great 
transformation  among  fathers.  They  look 
ahead,  just  as  you  look  ahead,  fearful  of  the 
outcome.  The  man  child  who  bears  their 
name  is  at  the  front.  Here  is  pride  for  you! 
Here  is  also  dread  and  anxiety  and  speechless 
horror. 

For  a  man  looks  on  a  son  as  an  artist  looks 
on  the  statue  or  the  painting  that  his  hands 
have  created.  He  is  the  embodiment  of  his 
dreams,  his  wealth,  his  playmate,  his  scholar, 
his  tutor,  his  available  future.  The  mistakes 
he  has  made  he  shall  rectify  in  his  boy.  The 
weaknesses  to  which  he  has  succumbed,  his  boy 
shall  conquer.  To  a  father  his  son  is  his  sec- 
ond chance,  his  beginning  again,  his  hope  of 
eternal  salvation.  So  long  as  he  has  that  boy 
he  is  immeasurably  rich  and  his  future  is  safe. 
When  he  loses  him,  he  loses  his  immortality 
in  the  flesh. 

Christopher  Morley  has  put  this  feeling  ex- 
actly in  a  little  poem : 

There  is  a  secret  laughter 
That  often  comes  to  me. 


102    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

And  though  I  go  about  my  work 
As  humble  as  can  be, 
There  is  no  prince  or  prelate 

I  envy — no,  not  one. 
No  evil  can  befall  me — 

By  God,  I  have  a  son! 

Fathers  feel  more  proprietary  about  their 
boys  than  mothers  do.  That  perhaps  accounts 
for  the  fact  that  some  fathers  do  not  get 
along  with  their  sons;  to  youth  ownership  is 
a  galling  yoke.  But  that  very  sense  of  own- 
ership makes  the  loss  of  a  son  all  the  harder 
to  bear. 

Create  an  image  after  your  own  fashion. 
Mold  it  to  the  perfection  of  your  dreams  .  .  . 
Then  send  it  forth,  fling  it  away  ,  .  .  Look 
ahead  to  thwarted  years,  to  dreams  that  never 
can  come  true.  Live  on  and  work  on  with 
nothing  more  to  sustain  you  than  the  bitter 
consolation  that  in  the  hour  of  trial  he  did  not 
fail.  .  .  . 

My  God,  Molly,  is  it  any  wonder  men  have 
stopped  drinking? 


Camp  

Dear  old  Molly ^ 

Three  months  ago  this  was  a  farm.  A  little 
whitewashed  stone  farmhouse  stood  near  the 
road  with  its  red  barns  and  cow  sheds  on  the 
hill  behind.  Before  it,  to  a  wood  a  mile  or 
more  away,  stretched  the  fields,  with  corn  in 
tassel  and  rustling  wheat  and  apples  greening 
on  the  bough. 

To-day  seven  hundred  buildings  stand  there 
— barracks  and  store  sheds  and  artillery  sta- 
bles and  power  stations  and  water  towers  and 
the  myriad  mushroom  shacks  of  construction 
work.  Macadam  roads  circle  the  camp  and 
cut  through  it.  Down  toward  the  wood  is  a 
huge  drill  ground  with  the  corn  stubble  still 
standing.  The  corn  shocks  now  hang  from 
stanchions  in  grewsome  rows  against  the  sky, 
like  murderers  on  a  gallows  tree;  and  eight 
hours  a  day  men  rush  at  them  with  bayonets 
and  stab  into  the  heart  where  the  golden  ears 
were. 

Stand  wherever  you  are,  and  on  all  sides  are 

103 


104     Letter's  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

men  drilling — in  company  streets,  before  bar- 
racks, in  corners  of  the  fields,  along  the  great 
macadam  highways.  They  are  eternally 
marching,  wheeling  around,  counting  off.  In 
a  few  weeks  these  thousands  of  men  will  move 
and  act  as  one.  When  the  hour  of  attack 
comes  they  will  respond  subconsciously  to 
commands,  think  about  them  as  little  as  you 
and  I  do  about  breathing  and  walking. 

The  purpose  of  military  drill  is  to  reduce 
men  to  a  common  factor.  First  they  receive 
the  uniform,  which  molds  them  into  a  stand- 
ardized being;  then  they  are  drilled  to  stand- 
ardized actions.  In  the  hour  of  battle  the 
commander  will  know  exactly  what  his  men 
will  do.  Without  this  endless  drilling  they 
would  be  nothing  more  than  a  uniformed  mob 
— cannon  fodder  at  best. 

These  men  were  all  taken  by  the  selective 
draft — plucked  out  of  jobs,  from  family 
hearths,  off  the  streets.  They  represent  all 
walks  of  life,  kinds  of  work  and  professions, 
social  and  educational  classes.  The  men  here 
and  those  in  the  fifteen  other  cantonments  to- 
tal much  over  a  million.  Their  transfer  from 
civil  life  was  effected  by  the  agency  of  public 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     105 

opinion  speaking  through  the  enactment  of 
Congress.  In  no  country  in  the  world  has 
such  a  universal  and  democratic  movement 
ever  taken  place.  Objection  to  it  was  negligi- 
ble. Most  of  the  men,  once  they  had  broken 
off  the  old  ties,  were  keen  for  the  life.  They 
are  better  fed,  live  more  regular  and  normal 
lives,  and  consequently  are  in  better  health 
than  they  ever  were  before.  All  this,  Molly,  is 
the  will  of  the  people. 

If  you  want  to  see  democracy  in  the  work- 
ing, visit  a  cantonment.  Here  you  see  the 
very  practical  side  of  our  nation.  And  that 
practical  side  is  this:  that  in  a  democracy  we 
are  all  equal  shareholders.  The  country's 
prosperity  is  our  prosperity,  its  danger  is  our 
danger.  And  as  we  share  its  prosperity,  so 
must  we  share  its  evil  times  and  be  willing  to 
defend  it  against  their  repetition. 

America  will  have  a  million  better  citizens 
in  a  few  weeks.  For  here,  as  nowhere  else,  a 
great  amalgamation  is  taking  place.  In  these 
sixteen  cantonments  scattered  over  the  coun- 
try we  have  set  up  our  melting-pot,  and  the 
fire  that  burns  under  it  is  the  ardor  of  patri- 
otism. 


106     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

Although  I  hate  the  destruction  of  war,  as 
every  just  man  should,  I  know  that  this  war 
has  come  to  us  as  our  great  spiritual  oppor- 
tunity.    Kipling  has  put  it  in  a  verse: 

Then  praise  the  Lord  Most  High 
Whose  strength  has  saved  us  whole; 
Who  bade  us  choose  that  flesh  should  die, 
And  not  the  living  soul. 

We  have  held  our  liberties  too  lightly.  We 
have  taken  our  freedom  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Now  comes  the  test.  Do  we  care  enough  for 
liberty  to  defend  it?  Is  it  so  sacred  to  us 
that  without  it  life  is  not  worth  the  living? 

This  time  a  year  ago  these  were  banal  ques- 
tions, the  rubber-stamp  phrases  of  bombastic 
Fourth  of  July  orators.  Suddenly  they  as- 
sume reality  and  become  a  live  thing. 

To  the  30,000  men  in  this  camp  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  ideal  of  American  freedom  is  ab- 
solutely vital.  It  is  their  business  to  know 
and  to  preserve  it,  just  as  a  few  weeks  ago  it 
was  their  business  to  earn  bread  and  clothes 
and  shelter.  No  discipline  is  too  great  if  that 
is  the  end. 

And  these  men  are  going  to  the  work  with 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    107 

a  song  on  their  lips.  They  are  being  trained 
to  face  death  light-heartedly,  as  befits  gentle- 
men. Nightly  for  a  week  now  I  have  heard 
them  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  halls,  crowded  on 
the  benches,  singing  for  dear  life.  Last  night 
three  thousand  of  them  packed  the  big  audito- 
rium. And  what  do  you  think  was  their  fa- 
vorite? A  fine,  rollicking  ballad  with  the  re- 
frain: 

God  help  Kaiser  Bill ! 

They  sang  it  over  and  over.  They  stamped 
their  feet  to  it.  They  waved  their  arms.  But 
from  a  rollick  it  became  a  solemn  event;  from 
a  street  ballad  a  hymn  of  heroes,  a  prayer  of 
dedication. 

God  help  Kaiser  Bill ! 

I  hope  He  does.  I  hope  He  helps  him  see 
the  light  before  it  is  too  late.  For,  as  the  other 
song  that  these  men  sing  goes, 

We  won't  come  back  till  it's  over  Over  There! 


Camp  

Dear  Sis, 

What  do  I  do  down  here? 

I  play  ragtime.  I  play  it  for  an  hour  every 
night,  between  seven  and  eight.  And  you 
ought  to  hear  me !  Barker  stands  on  the  plat- 
form and  leads  the  singing.  I  bang  the  box. 
The  boys  do  the  rest. 

Do  you  know,  I  never  played  ragtime  be- 
fore in  my  life,  and  as  for  jazzing  into  double 
syncopation,  it  was  an  unknown  world  1  For 
the  past  five  years  I  have  been  mooning  around 
with  Tchaikovsky  and  Rimsky-Korsakoff  and 
Dubussy,  playing  the  proper  things,  and  think- 
ing I  was  getting  all  there  was  to  be  had  out 
of  music.  Just  as  if  music  were  only  for  the 
cultured  and  the  highbrow! 

Down  here  we  have  music  for  the  mob,  and 
I'm  beginning  to  see  that  the  men  who  wrote 
"Keep  the  Home  Fires  Burning"  and  "Over 
There"  have  done  more  for  the  people  than  all 
the  Tchaikovsky's  in  the  world.     It's  the  dif- 

108 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     109 

ference  between  riding  in  a  Rolls  Royce  and 
riding  in  a  Ford.  And  I  choose  the  Ford 
every  time  now. 


Camp  

Dear  Molly, 

Yes,  I  have  changed,  and  I'm  not  ashamed 
to  acknowledge  it. 

I  used  to  look  on  the  war  intellectually,  dis- 
passionately. To-day  it  is  a  real  menace  to 
me.  And  the  sooner  we  can  spread  the  fear 
of  this  menace  throughout  America,  the  sooner 
we  will  be  able  to  crush  it. 

America  is  not  awake  to  what  it  faces.  We 
haven't  got  past  the  flag-waving  stage.  Wait 
until  our  papers  are  filled  with  casualty  hsts. 
Wait  until  you  read,  with  each  breakfast,  the 
names  of  the  men  you  knew  who  have  made 
the  supreme  sacrifice.  Wait  until  our  boys 
crawl  back  to  tell  us  the  things  that  actually 
happen.  We  dare  not  print  them  in  our 
papers.  We  can  only  hear  them  from  men 
who  have  seen  them  committed. 

What  does  it  mean  to  American  mothers 
that  scores  of  hospitals  in  France  hold  their 
hideous  quota  of  outraged  women,  insane  or 
on  the  verge  of  insanity,  pleading  for  the  re- 

110 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     111 

lease  of  death?  Does  the  awful  collapse  of 
the  morale  of  European  womanhood  mean 
anything  to  you?  Do  crucified,  maimed, 
syphilitic  children  mean  anything  to  you? 

You  want  to  know  what  you  can  do  beside 
Red  Cross  work  and  buying  Liberty  Bonds. 
You  can  do  this :  You  can  go  among  the  men 
and  women  of  your  town  and  awake  them  to 
the  perils  of  America  and  the  cause  for  which 
we  are  fighting. 

This  war  has  only  started.  Tell  them  that. 
Tell  them  that  no  sentimental  twaddle  will 
do  these  days,  that  they  must  all  be  in  this 
war,  and  in  it  to  their  utmost.  Grim  deter- 
mination. That's  what  we  want!  Realiza- 
tion that  Germany  is  winning.  That's  what 
we  want!  Don't  look  on  German  atrocities 
as  idle  gossip.  They  are  true,  and  you  have 
heard  only  the  least  of  them.  Don't  think 
that  we  are  winning.  Look  at  the  map  of 
Europe  and  see  how  much  we  are  winning. 

There's  your  work,  Molly.  Start  in  your 
own  town,  and  awake  the  men  and  women 
there  to  the  grave  perils  that  confront  us. 


Camp  

Dear  Molly, 

Here  is  the  real  thing. 

It  happens  every  night  on  the  parade 
ground. 

The  field  is  a  mile  each  way.  For  a  back- 
ground stand  the  trees,  glorious  in  the  red 
and  bronze  of  their  autumn  foliage.  The  sky- 
line blurs  off  to  nothingness  in  the  night  mist. 
A  darkening  sky  settles  down  fast  to  the  west- 
ward, shot  with  shafts  of  red  and  gray  and 
salmon.  The  welter  of  barracks  softens,  ages, 
dims  in  the  dusk. 

The  men  march  on  the  parade  grounds — 
three  thousand  or  more  of  them.  They  come 
from  all  directions  in  snaking  columns  of  fours, 
and  stretch  from  one  end  of  the  field  to  the 
other.  The  ends  are  lost  in  the  distance. 
Far  down  the  field,  a  speck  against  the  stub- 
ble, stands  the  colonel.  The  little  group  be- 
hind him  is  the  band.  The  men  move  in  a 
sweeping  rhythm,  their  lines  double,  extend. 
Hands  swing  in  unison.  Feet  scuffle  to- 
gether and  grow  still. 

112 


Letters  to  tJie  Mother  of  a  Soldier     113 

Of  a  sudden  an  appalling  silence.  Nature 
was  never  so  hushed.  You  catch  at  your 
breath.  Something  unseen  grips  you,  makes 
you  rigid.  The  brown  lines,  too,  are  rigid. 
The  sky  darkens  ominously.  It  portends  a 
great  and  solemn  event. 

Then  the  first  notes  of  "The  Star  Spangled 
Banner." 

Three  thousand  hands  spring  to  salute. 
Three  thousand  faces  turn  toward  a  bit  of 
bunting  slowly  fluttering  down  the  dusk  wind. 
A  soldier  reaches  out  to  catch  it  in  his  arms. 

The  band  ceases  .  .  .  Silence  again. 

A  sudden  command,  and  rank  on  rank  the 
men  disappear  into  the  dark. 

I  have  often  heard  soldiers  speak  of  the  flag. 
They  talk  about  it  reverently,  with  tender  rec- 
ollection, as  a  man  talks  about  his  mother. 
Somehow,  I  used  to  think  them  a  bit  senti- 
mental, probably  cantish.  I  felt  that  their 
fine  words  were  merely  the  stereotyped  phrases 
of  men  drilled  to  say  such  things.  I  know 
better  now.  It  is  a  live  thing  to  them,  a  real 
presence — the  presence  of  America  and  all  that 
she  has  been  and  will  be. 

A  bit  of  bunting  sliding  down  a  pole  .  .  . 


114     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

Three  thousand  men  at  salute  .  .  .  They  call 
the  ceremony  "Retreat."  I  think  of  it  as 
worship. 

For  to  army  men  this  nightly  lowering  of  the 
flag  is  an  act  of  supreme  worship.  They  take 
it  down  with  honor,  for  with  honor  it  was 
placed  there.  They  receive  it  tenderly,  be- 
cause they  love  it.  In  its  presence  they  are 
reverent  because  to  it  they  present  the  offer- 
ing of  their  opportunities,  their  hopes,  even 
their  verv  existence. 

Crusaders  battling  to  defend  the  Sacrament 
.  .  .  Soldiers  to  defend  the  flag,  fighting  for  a 
Real  Presence. 

And  in  their  fighting  lies  the  better  part  of 
worshij).  For  theirs  is  worship  that  presup- 
poses action,  service,  sacrifice.  Here  nightly 
men  dedicate  their  lives. 

Remember  that  whenever  you  see  the  flag. 
Remember  the  men  who  have  died  for  it  and 
will  die.  Remember  these  men  standing  in 
the  dusk,  rigid  with  reverence. 


"The  Mill,"  Silvermine 
Dear  old  Sis, 

They've  given  me  three  days'  leave  of  ab- 
sence. Things  up  here  at  The  Mill  needed  at- 
tending to,  and  I  am  husthng  to  get  them  all 
arranged  by  Monday  night.  So  this  is  just  a 
note  to  tell  you  of  an  incident. 

Yesterday  as  I  was  working  out  on  the 
"perch"  I  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  Mr. 
Walton  was  coming  up.  He  was  in  his  Sun- 
day blacks.     I  wondered  what  it  could  mean. 

As  he  came  up  I  saw  that  his  face  was  tense. 
He  carried  a  paper  in  his  hand.  When  he 
reached  the  top  he  dropped  into  a  chair  and 
looked  across  at  me. 

"Well,  Al's  gone." 

He  handed  me  the  paper. 

Struck  by  a  shell  a  week  ago  while  moving 
up  ammunition. 

For  a  moment  neither  of  us  said  anything, 
although  we  looked  each  other  face  to  face. 

"I  would  to  God  that  I  could  .  .  ." 

115 


116    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

He  fell  back  in  his  chair,  the  oath  unfinished 
on  his  lips. 

We  sat  together  a  long  time  silent.  Finally 
he  got  up,  walked  to  the  railing  and  looked 
through  the  branches  to  the  wide  reaches  of 
the  river  beyond. 

"Well,  here's  me  and  the  Missus  .  .  .  And 
there's  Al — in  France." 

As  I  laid  my  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder 
he  nodded  his  head  slowly,  and  then  went  down 
the  stairs. 


Back  in  Camp 
Dear  Molly, 

The  passage  you  wanted  is  from  "The  Spi- 
ral Way"  by  John  Cordelier. 

"Nothing  shall  explain  the  mystery  of  Love  and  Pain 
but  a  sharing  of  it.  Nothing  shall  initiate  us  into  the 
Life  of  God,  which  is  our  peace,  if  we  turn  from  the 
cleaving  sword  and  outstretched  arms  that  make  up  the 
everlasting  mercy  of  the  Cross." 


117 


Camp  

Dear  Molly  Mine, 

The  going  of  Al  Walton  has  made  these 
thousands  of  lads  around  here  seem  doubly 
precious  to  me.  Not  that  Al  Walton  meant 
anything  personal  to  me,  or  that  these  lads 
would  under  other  circumstances,  save  as  hu- 
man beings,  American-born.  I  find  myself 
suddenly  confronted  with  the  realization  that 
these  boys  and  those  who  have  already  fallen 
have  made  the  ordinary  manner  of  dying  a 
sordid  end. 

Somewhere  Dr.  Johnson  said  that  it  was  a 
sad  sight  for  a  man  to  lie  down  and  die.  For 
most  of  us  death  is  a  pitiful  struggle.  We 
wear  out,  peter  out,  abuse  to  death  our  God- 
given  potentialities.  We  fight  to  hold  the 
mastery  over  things  not  worth  the  holding — a 
world-worn  carcass,  a  broken  will,  a  disillu- 
sioned faith,  a  rusty,  old,  sin-eaten  conscience. 

How  much  more  do  these  lads  give  up! — 
A  strong  body,  an  unsullied  mind,  a  young 
faith,  a  will  to  conquer.     That  is  what  makes 

118 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     119 

their  dying  so  valuable.  They  offer  for  the 
accomplishment  of  an  ideal  what  you  and  I 
can  never  offer — the  things  we  have  long  since 
lost. 

I  would  not  say  that  men  go  into  battle 
deliberately  to  die,  but  I  do  know  that  they 
are  willing  to  die,  to  suffer  the  exquisite  agony 
of  wounds,  if  by  that  sacrifice  their  purpose  be 
gained. 

There's  the  word!  A  soldier  approaches 
death  "face-fronted,  standing  up."  Flooded 
with  the  grim  necessity  for  victory,  he  walks 
to  it  open-eyed  and  willing.  He  dies  with  a 
purpose. 

And  the  more  I  see  of  life  and  men,  the  more 
I  envy  him  his  opportunities. 

It  is  easy  enough  for  me,  I  know,  to  sit  here 
and  write  on  glibly  about  death  being  only  a 
bend  in  the  road  of  life,  the  opening  of  a 
bolted  door.  But  these  things  it  must  be  if 
my  faith  is  not  vain.  More,  I  am  sure  that 
the  way  a  man  enters  that  door  will  have  much 
to  do  with  his  life  beyond  it — whether  he 
creeps  in  because  he  can't  keep  out,  or  walks 
fearlessly  to  it  and  knocks  to  be  admitted. 


Camp  

Dear  Molly, 

When  I  was  packing  up  my  belongings  in 
Silvermine  last  week  I  came  across  some 
things  that  made  me  quite  a  youngster  again. 

There  was  a  box  of  toy  soldiers  that  George 
brought  back  to  Harry  from  Paris.  There 
were  also  Harry's  "patchy  shoes."  You  re- 
member them — how  you  had  his  shoes  patched 
because  he  had  scuffed  them  out  so  quickly, 
and  how  he  refused  to  wear  them  because,  as 
he  put  it,  "a  gentleman  never  wears  patchy 
shoes." 

These  things  have  been  up  in  my  attic  for 
the  past  ten  years  or  more.  I  am  sending 
them  on  to  you  by  this  post. 

When  I  was  packing  up  the  music  I  came 
across  a  lot  of  our  old  songs.  There  was 
one  book  that  George  and  I  used  to  sing  to- 
gether. Do  you  remember  that  delectable 
one  about — 

The  chief  defect  of  Henry  King 

Was  chewing  little  bits  of  string. 

120 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier    121 

At  last  he  swallowed  some  which  tied 
Itself  in  ugly  knots  inside. 

And  there  was  the  good  boy — 

The  nicest  child  I  ever  knew 
Was  Charles  Augustus  Fortesque. 
He  never  lost  his  cap,  nor  tore 
His  stockings  or  his  pinafore: 
In  eating  bread  he  made  no  crumbs. 
He  was  extremely  fond  of  sums. 

Even  now  I  can  see  George  standing  by  the 
piano — his  mouth  open  like  a  gold  fish — 
pumping  out  a  most  profound  basso,  while 
Harry  and  you  doubled  in  delight  on  the 
couch  across  the  room.  I  am  sure  the  boy 
never  learned  a  single  moral  from  these  "Cau- 
tionary Tales."     Boys  never  do. 

And  now  George  is  gone,  and  Harry  is  over 
there  in  the  trenches,  and  you  are  hid  away  in 
the  South,  and  I,  I  am  writing  on  a  deal  table 
in  a  ten-by-six  room  while  four  hundred  men 
in  the  hall  outside  watch  a  picture  show  and 
fill  in  between  reels  with — 

"Pack  up  your  troubles  in  your  old  kit  bag 
And  smile,  smile,  smile." 

I  thought  it  would  be  hard  to  break  away 


122     Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

from  The  Mill  and  the  quiet  life  up  there. 
But  it  wasn't.  These  aren't  days  for  quiet 
lives. 

Only,  now  and  then  my  thoughts  steal  back 
to  the  big  room  and  the  fire  and  the  singing 
before  bedtime,  and  I  go  on  with  my  work 
strengthened  by  the  thought  that  space  and 
time  and  death  can  never  entirely  separate  us, 
that  we  are  very  close  together,  if  love  lies 
between. 


Camp  -^ 

Dear  Molly, 

Perhaps  I  did  mean  that. 

Anyhow,  I  believe  it.  I  believe  that  the 
dead  are  never  very  far  away.  I  feel  that  they 
come  back  to  us  on  the  currents  of  a  great 
and  surging  love,  as  electricity  throbs  along 
wires  to  its  appointed  place. 

Now  and  again  I  ask  myself  what  would  I 
say  to  a  man  or  woman  who  lost  a  son  in  bat- 
tle. I  have  written  perfunctory  notes  to  par- 
ents abroad — the  conventional  things  all  too 
full  of  conscious  lies.  But  they  are  not  what 
I  would  say  were  the  parent  or  the  wife  near 
and  dear  to  me. 

Telling  them  that  their  grief  should  be  eas- 
ily borne  because  so  many  others  are  grieving 
is  consolation  that  amounts  almost  to  insult. 
Saying  that  they  should  be  proud  is  a  bitter 
thought.  Pride  they  will  have,  but  it  will  be 
pride  dimmed  with  tears.  Acceptance  of 
God's  will  is  easy  enough  to  preach  but  not 
easy  to  practice.    It  is  this  sort  of  preachment 

123 


124    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

that  makes  men  rail  at  God.  No,  we  must 
have  something  that  comes  closer  to  our  feel- 
ings than  these,  and  I  believe  it  is  to  be  found 
in  the  realization  that  the  dead  are  very  near 
to  us,  much  nearer  than  any  of  us  ever  realize. 

What  we  dread  most  is  their  absence,  their 
not  coming  back.  If  we  can  believe  that  they 
are  not  far  away,  that  they  can  and  do  return 
to  us,  then,  why  need  we  mourn? 

"I  believe  in  the  Communion  of  Saints." 


Camp r 

Dear  Sister, 

It  is  silly  for  you  to  worry.  The  boy  has 
either  not  had  time  to  write  or  his  letter  has 
gone  astray. 

You  must  remember  that  the  men  in  the 
trenches  have  but  few  facilities  for  writing 
letters  because  they  cannot  add  even  the  light 
weight  of  paper  and  pencil  to  their  packs. 
Then  the  letters  have  to  be  censored.  Some- 
thing may  happen  while  the  letters  are  being 
transported  back  to  the  post.  And  then,  be- 
tween here  and  France  the  mails  suffer  many 
delays.  For  a  matter  of  fact,  it  amazes  me 
that  we  receive  any  mail  at  all  from  the  men  at 
the  front. 

So,  cheer  up !    You'll  hear  from  him. 


125 


Camp 

Dear  Molly, 

In  the  next  room  they  are  having  a  French 
class.  The  room  is  crowded  with  officers  and 
privates.  A  private  from  Wisconsin,  who 
holds  a  degree  from  Grenoble  and  the  Sor- 
bonne  and  who  used  to  teach  French  out  there, 
is  acting  as  tutor.  It  is  the  most  rudimentary 
French,  and  he  is  teaching  it  after  the  parrot 
fashion.  He  reads  the  English,  then  the 
French,  then  they  repeat  each  phrase  after 
him,  reading  it  from  their  little  pocket  man- 
uals. 

The  lesson  to-night  is  "In  the  Hospital." 

"You  are  better  aren't  you?"  the  instructor 
asks. 

"Vous  etes  bien  mieuic,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

"You  have  slept  well." 

"Vou^  avez  bien  dor  mi." 

"We  are  going  to  change  the  dressing." 

''Nous  allons  changer  le  pansement/' 

126 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     127 


"It  will  not  take  long,  a  matter  of  a  few 
minutes." 

"Ce  ne  sera  long,  V affaire  de  quelques  min- 
utes/' 

"Oh!  I  am  very  uncomfortable!" 

''Oh!  je  suis  mal  a.  Vaise," 

"My  back  hurts." 

"Le  dos  me  fait  mal" 

"My  foot  is  very  painful." 

"Mon  pied  me  fait  soufrir." 

"My  pillow  is  so  hot  and  hard.  Will  you 
please  turn  it?" 

"Mon  oreiller  est  si  chaud  et  dur,  Voud- 
riez-vous  le  retourner?" 

"Thank  you." 

''Mercir 

"I  am  very  thirsty.     Some  water,  please." 

"J'ai  bien  soif.    De  Veau,  s'il  vous  plait" 

"Open  the  window.     I  need  air." 

^'Ouvrez  la  fenetre.    J'ai  besoin  d'air" 

"Will  you  please  write  my  mother  that  I 
have  received  the  Croix  de  Guerre?" 

''VouleZ'VOus,  mademoiselle,  ecrire  a  ma 
mere  que  j'ai  refu  la  Croix  de  Guerre?" 

"Thank  you  very  much." 

"Merci  bien" 


128    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

And  so  it  goes  on,  over  and  over,  backwards 
and  forwards,  mixing  the  questions,  halting  to 
correct  pronunciations.    It  is  all  very  serious. 


Camp 

Dear  Molly, 

Still  I  would  wait. 

When  men  go  into  the  first  line  trenches 
they  are  very  much  cut  off  from  the  world.. 
Mails  do  get  to  them  and  do  get  out,  but  there 
are  times  when  it  is  difficult  to  bring  up  even 
food  and  drink.  The  authorities  know  well 
that  news  from  home  and  letters  written  home 
mean  a  lot  to  the  men — keep  their  morale 
steady  and  steady  the  morale  at  home — and 
they  do  everything  in  their  power  to  afford 
facilities.  In  fact,  a  man  is  obliged  to  write 
one  letter  to  some  member  of  his  family  before 
he  goes  into  battle. 

If  anything  has  happened  to  Harry — and 
of  course  we  must  recognize  that  eventuality 
— there  may  be  a  dozen  reasons  why  he  could 
not  write  or  send  word.  You  know  that  he 
would  if  he  could. 

Meantime,  my  dear  sister,  I  beg  you  to  keep 
calm  and  to  remember  that  you,  too,  hold  a 
trench — the  trench  that  cuts  through  the  heart 

129 


130    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 

of  America.  In  these  days  of  peril  you  must 
be  plucky.  Our  courage  is  the  courage  of 
you  mothers. 


Camp  

Dear  Molly, 

A  night  without  stars. 

A  night  of  teeming  rain. 

The  roads  as  plowed  seas  of  mud  and  run- 
ning rivers. 

Here  and  there  a  light  blurs  through  the 
blackness.  A  soldier  stumbles  past,  the  rain 
streaming  from  his  poncho. 

Camp  lies  three  miles  down  the  road.  The 
station  is  warm  and  cheery. 

I  hesitate  to  step  out  into  the  dark.  It  is 
so  utterly  unknown,  for  I  have  never  come  that 
way  before.  Finally  I  pluck  up  my  courage 
and  start. 

Half  a  mile,  and  I  am  completely  alone. 
No  sound  save  the  rain.  No  companion  save 
rain  and  mud  and  the  swish  of  my  feet  through 
it.     No  light.     No  sign  post. 

I  am  soaked  through  to  the  skin.  My  hat 
brim  bends  around  my  face.  Water  streams 
from  my  finger  tips. 

I  do  not  know  the  way.     I  can  only  go  on. 

131 


132    Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier 
It  is  such  a  night  as  when 


•    •    • 


men  walk  nearer  to  God's  throne 
Because  they  find  themselves  alone. 

A  mile  farther,  and  a  sudden  light  throws 
me  into  silhouette  against  the  mud.  I  lurch 
to  the  roadside. 

A  truck  splashes  past,  inexorable,  awful, 
magnificent.  Its  tail  light  glows  for  an  in- 
stant through  the  gloom,  like  an  evil  eye,  and 
is  lost  around  the  bend. 

I  plod  on,  utterly  miserable.  I  cannot  go 
back.  I  must  go  forward — like  a  man  be- 
tween worlds,  like  a  soul  driven  forth  into  the 
night. 

On  and  on.  Still  no  sign  of  human  habita- 
tion, still  no  light.  Only  a  great  desire  to  be 
home  seizes  me.  I  plunge  forward  through 
the  merciless  rain. 

Then  the  bend! 

A  sentry  halts  me.  His  gun  touches  my 
coat.    He  peers  into  my  face. 

"Pass  on,  friend!" 

Yes,  I  am  coming  to  it!  Already  I  have 
passed  the  outposts.  .  .  .  Home  lies  yonder 
where  the  lights  cut  the  rain! 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     133 

I  turn  down  a  road  that  rings  hard  to  my 
heels.  Sentries  challenge  and  cheer  me  with 
a  word.  I  hm*ry  by  a  line  of  darkened  bar- 
racks, mount  the  steps  and  fling  open  a  door. 

A  fire  crackles  on  the  hearth.  A  soldier 
sits  by  it  gazing  into  the  flames.  He  rises 
when  I  approach. 

"Welcome  home!" 

And  now  it  seems  as  though  the  night  were 
never  dark,  nor  the  rain  pitiless.  It  seems  as 
though  the  journey  between  worlds  were  a 
little  thing — an  instant's  space — and  then  the 
welcoming. 


Camp  -- — 
My  dearest  Sister, 

Valor? 

No,  you  must  have  even  more  than  valor. 
You  who  are  capable  of  courage  must  be  cour- 
ageous. 

Valor  is  a  brilliant  thing  and  young,  bred 
of  an  hour's  need.  She  has  a  flashing  eye  and 
a  quick  arm.  She  marches  with  head  erect, 
and  the  boulevards  echo  her  welcoming.  Her 
costume  is  the  brilliant  panoply  of  war,  and 
myriad  banners  flutter  around  her.  Music- 
ally her  side  arms  chnk.  She  fears  nothing. 
Death  is  the  crown  of  her  sacrifices. 

But  Courage — Courage  is  a  homely  soul. 
Her  face  is  seamed  and  her  hair  grayed.  Her 
hands  are  gnarled  from  hard  labor  and  her 
back  bent  with  carrying  great  burdens  a  long 
way.  Silently  she  stumbles  forward,  alone; 
and  few  know  her  passing.  Her  arms  are 
prayer,  hope,  faith.  She  fears  naught  save 
the  mercy  of  God.  Death  is  the  least  of  the 
sacrifices  she  can  make. 

134 


Letters  to  the  Mother  of  a  Soldier     135 

For  Courage  picks  up  her  burden  after 
Death  has  passed,  and  she  carries  it  on,  tire- 
less, unreluctant,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  hori- 
zon. There  she  knows  will  appear,  in  His 
good  time,  the  Dayspring  of  Peace. 


^"''^ 


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